


Old Fics From Hellbent_Panda

by rolypoly_panda



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Dani Powell, BAMF JT Tarmel, Blood and Injury, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Concussions, Drowning, Fluff, Gil Arroyo Whump, Gil Arroyo is Malcolm Bright's Parent, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Major Character Injury, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel Friendship, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Near Death Experiences, Other, Protectiveness, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Whump, ships if you squint hard enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24683116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolypoly_panda/pseuds/rolypoly_panda
Summary: This is a collection of fics from my old account hellbent_panda. Basic summaries are inside, on the first "chapter"/information page. I hope everyone enjoys these, and I apologize to those who have yet to read them. I tried to make it as organized as possible for everyone.List of Fics: Dynamite, Juncture, Soft Landing, Maker, Slice, Survivor, Quick Lil Shits, Upturned, Unfortunate, Underhand, Unwind, and (the still unfinished) IndictedMost fics include whump and hurt/comfort, as well as some form of team-as-family dynamic!
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 13
Kudos: 65





	1. Information

**Author's Note:**

> All characters and copyright content belongs to FOX.

Hi,

So, I've decided to upload my old fics from my old account, hellbent_panda. _Or_ , rather, upload fics that I still have. Since I half-wrote in AO3, there is a lot of content that will be gone from these fics. So I apologize for that. Additionally, Bright-Isms was completely lost because my dumdum dumbass forgot to save the chapters in Google Docs... So I apologize about that one as well. Believe you me, I'm _fucking upset_ about that, too.

I won't be editing _any_ of these fics, so they may be incomplete, may have glaring errors, and they may not have the same exact story you remember. I'm only uploading the ones that appear to be complete with a quick scroll through, sans Indicted. That shit never got complete... Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy these if you enjoyed them before. And if you've never read them, then I hope you enjoy them the first time around. Without further ado, here are the really crude summaries that I came up with on the spot for every fic:

(note that I haven't read these since I wrote them - some of them from 2019 - so I'm guessing hard on these tags. i tried to tag triggering content. apologies if i missed something.)

CHAPTER 2 IS - DYNAMITE

After Malcolm falls into a frozen lake, Gil and Dani struggle to keep him awake and alive long enough to get to the hospital.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Drowning, Dad Gil, CPR, Hypothermia

CHAPTER 3 IS - JUNCTURE

A retelling of the episode 8 tunnel scene, where the team finds Malcolm and bring him to safety.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Squad Being Fam, Concussions, Big Brother JT

CHAPTER 4 IS - DIAL TONE

Malcolm gets locked into a freezer, and nearly dies of hypothermia. The team saves him, of course.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Suicidal Thoughts, Hypothermia, Dad Gil, Near Death Experience

CHAPTER 5 IS - SOFT LANDING

A 5+1 fic wherein there are 5 times Gil put a blanket on Malcolm, and there is 1 time Malcolm put a blanket on him.

Rated: Gen | Major Tags: Dad Gil, Fluff and H/C

CHAPTER 6 IS - MAKER

Malcolm, kidnapped by John, having some dark thoughts. John smashes his hand.

Rated: M | Major Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture

CHAPTER 7 IS - SLICE

Gil goes into Dad Mode after Martin says some stuff to Malcolm, only to end up nearly dying because of it.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Near Death Experience, Dad Gil, Sliced Neck, Big Brother JT, I Love Dani

CHAPTER 8 IS - SURVIVOR

A look into Malcolm's mental state after episode 12.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Suicidal Thoughts

CHAPTER 9 IS - QUICK LIL SHITS

These are the minifics prompted by Jameena in our Whump Discord Server.

Rated: M | It's got a lot of everything, so be prepared for pretty much anything _but_ explicit material.

CHAPTER 10 IS - UPTURNED

A 5+1 fic wherein there are 5 times JT carried Malcolm, and there is 1 time Malcolm "carried" him.

Rated: T | Major Tags: CPR, Drowning, Big Brother JT, Fluff and H/C

CHAPTER 11 IS - UNFORTUNATE

Malcolm rushes into a dangerous scene, only to end up getting shot.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Big Brother JT, GSW, Dad Gil, I Love Dani

CHAPTER 12 IS - UNDERHAND

In college, Malcolm is humiliated by his peers during a drinking game.

Rated: Gen | Major Tags: Past Self-Harm, Humiliation, Underage Drinking

CHAPTER 13 IS - UNWIND

Malcolm is taken by a terrifying dude who cuts the hair of his victims before murdering them.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Concussion, Big Brother JT, I Love Dani

CHAPTER 14 IS - INDICTED 

A sickfic where Malcolm is constantly puking up his guts and Dani has to take care of him.

Rated: T | Major Tags: Sickfic, Vomiting, I Love Dani

I hope everyone enjoys!


	2. Dynamite

_**CHAPTER ONE** _

Their suspect’s house sat deep in the woods of middle New York, just outside of the nearest township’s stretch, surrounded by towering pine trees with thick roots and snow-heavy needle thickets. The blue of the pines was swallowed by shimmering white that sparkled in the overhead sun. Snow crunched under their shoes, the precipitation packed high and heavy around them and, behind Gil, Malcolm cursed something under his breath as Dani let out yet another long sigh. He chanced a glance back just as Malcolm tripped over himself, stumbling in the snow. Dani snickered. He shot her a sharp glare.

His eyes were sunken, darker with the purple-blue bags underneath. Sleep had alluded him once again, it seemed, and while Gil hadn’t noticed on the drive up, Malcolm looked more unsteady than usual, stumbling to get his balance, shaking harder than himself or Dani. Even wrapped in his thick wool coat, a scarf, gloves, and a spare knit hat Gil kept in the glove compartment, Malcolm rattled with the cold, his cheeks pale and teeth chattering.

At least he wasn’t shaking from a panic attack.

Gil turned forward again, glancing down at Google Maps pulled up on his phone.

They trudged forward, along a somewhat-dug out path along the river’s edge. The water had been sealed under by a layer of ice, and ahead, the tallest stakes of a hardly visible bridge stuck out a deep brown against the static white backdrop. Gil could make out the bow of the bridge’s curve, from where a dark shadow cast long the solidified river.

Behind him, Dani asked, “How much further?”

Gil paused. The footsteps behind him came to a stop as he turned around, staring down at his phone. The screen pivoted with him, lining his GPS’ icon up with the small blue dot on the map. “We have to cross the bridge, over there--” He pointed towards the vague bridge-structure that connected the two shapes of land. “--and then walk that way, south, for about five minutes.”

Malcolm groaned. He gestured next to them. “And why don’t we just  _ walk _ across the ice?”

“You crazy?” Dani raised her brow to him.

He shrugged comically wide. “Some say,  _ yes _ .” At Gil’s incredulous glare, Malcolm continued, a little calmer, “Look, it’s not that far a walk, and it’s only  _ six  _ degrees out. It’s probably solid.” He huffed. “Why walk north for ten minutes,  _ and then south _ for five, when we could just... _ cut across  _ and--?”

“No.” Gil held up his hand. “It’s ‘ _ probably _ ’ solid, Bright. Not  _ definitively _ solid. I’m not risking all our lives on a probably like that just to shave off a few minutes.”

“And add another fifteen on our way back!” Malcolm growled. “It’s already a thirty minute back and forth! Why not make it, like,  _ fifteen? _ ” Malcolm raised his eyebrows, the seafoam blue of his eyes light and fiery with furious tension.

The kid needed a goddamn  _ nap _ , as far as Gil was concerned.

“ _ No. _ ” he snapped. “And that’s final.”

“Gil,” Dani started, softly. “We don’t even know if the perp’s home. And we don’t have a warrant…” She trailed off. “We could be wasting our time here…”

“Don’t you turn on me, too.” Gil rolled his eyes.

Malcolm seethed with pent-up anger. “Come  _ on _ , Gil. It’s fucking  _ freezing _ out here!”

“ _ No _ , Bright. I said no, and I meant it. It’s not going to happen, so cool it. All right?” Malcolm grumbled something, his jaw tight. Gil leaned closer. “ _ All right? _ ”

“Okay!” Malcolm threw his arms out. He sucked in a breath and shouldered around Gil and Dani.

The bridge groaned under their weight, heaving as all three walked over its highest point. Dani kept her hand hovering over the railing, but Malcolm walked fast and far despite his short legs. He kept the pace brisk and Gil hardly had time to worry whether the bridge was safe as his shoes hit solid ground within a few moments.

Through the trees, Gil could make out the petite house of their potential suspect, with its lights off and chimney quiet. There were no cars parked in front of the opened garage door, but with the winter advisory warning lasting for another few hours, and the roads still caked with wet snow, Gil doubted anyone could have driven off.

“Where are the cars?” Malcolm breathed out. His light tone betrayed his curiosity.

Gil folded his arms across his chest. “I was wondering the same thing.”

“They’re not here…” Dani mumbled. “Are they?”

“Now, we don’t know that.” Gil held up a peace-offering hand. “It’ll probably be fine. Let’s just...go and see.”

Malcolm shoved past him. “ _ ‘Probably’  _ isn’t  _ definitively _ , Gil.” he spat.

Gil rolled his eyes again. Often, Malcolm could function with little sleep, buzzing off of caffeine and adrenaline, a rapid-fire piston shooting ideas and thoughts and words at a million miles an hour. But there were rare occasions that he became a brat, a stick-in-the-mud that Gil wanted to slap over the back of his head and send him home rather than deal with. The lippiness, the short temper, the childish whims: he didn’t  _ need _ those when he, too, was freezing his ass off.

“Cool it, Bright.” Gil warned.

“I didn’t ruin a pair of Allen Edmonds for  _ nothing _ .” Malcolm’s voice echoed off the trees. He continued forward. Dani rounded in front of Gil, shrugging lightly, and turned forward to follow behind Malcolm. Gil pushed after them.

By the time they were within a few feet of the front door, whatever hope Gil had was drained out of him, dried and shriveled. He pinched the bridge of his nose, slowing his pace as Malcolm picked his walk up into a jog. A note flopped against the door in the wind, held down by a staple, Gil presumed. As Malcolm skipped up the concrete steps, Gil and Dani slowed at the edge of the driveway.

“Evicted.” Malcolm sputtered, squinting down at the note. He turned to them, eyes wide with disbelief. “They’ve been  _ evicted _ . Nobody’s here.” His arms dropped to his sides, a defeated look wrenching his features. “Damnit.”

“That sucks.” Dani mumbled.

Gil nodded quietly.

“Are you  _ kidding me? _ ” Malcolm shouted up, into the trees. He stared at the cloudless sky overhead, blinking slowly, his body swaying with the icy northern breeze. His lips moved, forming words, but the sounds were swallowed by the whistling winds.

“Bright,” Gil said, and Malcolm turned to him, face softened in bitter contentment. “Let’s go home.”

Malcolm didn’t fight. He sauntered over to them as Dani said, “We should have called ahead.”

“And risked a potential suspect escaping?” Gil asked.

Malcolm barked out a laugh. “So much for worrying about that.”

The silence mocked them, not even one bird coming to screech at their pitiful state. The quiet sucked Gil of whatever energy he had saved for questioning, for a potential arrest. He sagged into himself, suddenly excruciatingly tired. “Let’s go.” He turned, waving Dani and Malcolm after him. He heard their footsteps following behind as they made their way back to the car.

They moved slower on the return trip. Gil had aimed for his footfalls to mirror the ones he made on the way forward, stalling him only slightly as he stared down at the boot patterns in the snow. He hadn’t noticed until now, but it seemed as if Malcolm had the smallest feet of the three of them. Dani’s boots were cut wide and long, with a chunky heel and a distinctive square-pattered tread. Gil’s were similar in pattern but the biggest there, dwarfing the others’. And Malcolm’s designer shoes were only half a size-or-so smaller than Dani’s, but thinner, tapered at the arch and pointed towards the toes. His lacked much tread, and for a moment, Gil found himself wondering just  _ how _ Malcolm was not slip-sliding all over the place?

Malcolm was so damn small.

Gil had never really forgotten. As he raised Malcolm into adulthood, he found the kid had stopped growing sooner than most, and had stayed a compact five-foot-seven. His frame was scrawny and athletics weren’t his forte as a child, earning him ass kickings and bullies throughout grade school. But as he had graduated, and applied to Harvard, and then Quantico, Gil realized that, while Malcolm Bright didn’t tower over his enemies, he possessed an insane strength from deep within.

Perhaps it stemmed from having to grow up too fast, the son of a serial killer, a monster by proxy, or perhaps it was due to the decades of psychological beatings he took, but whatever the reason, Gil saw only strength. A perseverance to be able to push forward when everyone else fell back. A determination to win, to succeed, when everyone else failed.

Gil had always admired that in Malcolm.

In his  _ son. _

His currently bratty, sleep-deprived, thirty-one-year-old, five-foot-seven son.

Malcolm had taken the lead in Gil’s absent-mindedness, stomping until he had tired from the strain of walking through packed snow. He brought them towards the river bank, where the bridge sat a couple minutes into the distance. While Dani continued on, staring at her own feet as well, Malcolm stopped, glancing out across the river.

“Don’t.” Gil said. Malcolm jumped.

He spun around. “‘Don’t’ what?”

“You know what.” Gil glared at him. Malcolm took a step closer to the river’s edge. Gil stopped. “Bright...let’s  _ go _ …”

“I know.” Malcolm shrugged. He took another step, his back to Gil, and another until his foot dropped down onto solid ice. “I’ll meet you guys at the car.” He flashed them a coy smile.

“Hey,  _ hey! _ Bright! I said--!” Gil broke off with a snarl. Malcolm continued forward with the arrogance of a jackass, sauntering with his chin high as he crossed over the river.

Behind him, Dani said, “It looks fine, Gil.” She rubbed her hands together. “Ready to cut those five minutes off the trip yet?”

Gil rolled his tongue over his teeth. Malcolm was already halfway out, skittering over a particular patch of ice that had been bald of snow. He frowned.

Why hadn’t it been covered?

It was far below thirty-two degrees outside, forcing the conditions into below-freezing. It should have been frozen over, solid, covered with snow…

...unless the water was too warm for snow to stick.

Unless it  _ wasn’t frozen. _

“Bright!  _ Bright!  _ Malcolm, stop!” Gil surged forward onto the ice without thinking, chasing after Malcolm.

Malcolm stopped, turning around with a small smile. “What, Gil. Change your--”

The ice groaned. Malcolm’s jaw snapped shut. His body went rigid. Gil stiffened. His heart beat against his ribcage, throbbing up into his throat, his ears, onto his tongue, deafening him as Malcolm’s eyes widened and the ice snapped from underneath him.

Behind him, Dani shrieked, “ _ Bright? _ ”

Gil stared. Blank. Empty. His thoughts vanished. His gut hammered in time with his pulse as he gawked at the hole in the ice, at where Malcolm was  _ just standing _ .

Oh  _ Christ _ .

Gil surged forward, skidding to his knees within moments as he slid to a stop in front of the gaping black hole into the rushing abyss below. Thoughtless, Gil shoved his hand into the water, hissing at the stinging cold but choking on his ripped heart as he drew back empty-handed and alone. “Oh  _ God _ no.” He stared breathlessly down at the whirling, white water running fast southbound.

“Gil!” Dani shouted from the riverbank. “Gil! What’s going on? Is Bright down there?”

Shakily, Gil rose to his feet. “G-Get to the car! Now! Call a hospital!” He broke into a scurry downriver, praying to  _ God _ the ice didn’t give way under him, too.

Not yet, at least.

He scanned for other bald spots across the river, swallowing the sick that climbed like his pulse, tears glistening his gaze.  _ God _ , he couldn’t lose Malcolm. Not to something so  _ pathetically stupid _ as disobeying him as if he were a  _ child _ .

Malcolm was likely clawing at the ice. He was likely digging his broken fingernails into the underside of the sheet, slowing his descent, panicking alone and in the cold and waiting for the quick, and yet unfathomably slow snap of death. Malcolm, his  _ son _ , could already be dead and at the prospect, Gil gasped around tears, shaking from the cold, from the wind, from his frozen-stiff arm from where he plunged it into the rapids, from anything but the agony building under his sternum like a balloon, ready to pop. Because Malcolm needed him calm. He needed Gil to  _ focus _ and  _ save him _ .

Gil rushed forward blindly, almost forgetting where and  _ why _ he was running until he slipped on a thin patch of ice, nearly falling, and he jerked back with surprise, stiffened with elation, and dropped forward with conviction.

The ice hadn’t been as thin as the patch Malcolm had been standing on, but it was enough to work with, and far enough downriver that Gil had a semblance of hope in his weary heart. Clear water bubbled up from a solid single crack stretching across the patch and scurrying under the snow. Gil leaned back and kicked at the ice with his heel, feeling his rubber-soled shoes bounce off the hard sheet below. He slammed again, harder, and a spike of pain lodged up his calf and to his kneecap.

Growling, Gil whipped around onto his hands and knees. He pounded at the ice with the butts of his palms, the sharp cold biting into his bare skin.

The ice buckled slightly. More water pooled up around his hands.

Gil wound his elbow back and without thought, closed his hand into a fist and punched a hole through the ice. His hand cracked as the ice caved and devoured his wrist into the freezing rapids. Agony lanced up his wrist, shooting through his elbow and curling up around his shoulders, throbbing in time with his frantic heartbeat. Gil ignored it, swallowed his cry of pain with gritted teeth as he pounded at the shriveling layers around the hole. It gave way, and he unceremoniously plunged both arms deep into the waters.

Nothing.

Gil trembled hard. He groped aimlessly through the river water.

Nothing.

His body began to panic along with his mind, thinking of the worst case scenario, of finding Malcolm washed up on the shores of New York City, finding his cold, stiff corpse when the river thawed, finding pieces of his small,  _ fiery _ son being eaten by sea creatures and algae as he sunk to the bottom of the ocean,  _ finding-- _

Fabric brushed his fingertips.

Gil clamped his hands tight. His numbed fingers clenched around sodden synthetic material and Gil gasped with relief. He heaved up, breathless from the cold, from the  _ inescapable fear _ , muscles rattling so hard his whole frame vibrated but he didn’t stop until he dragged a boneless, sopping wet Malcolm up through the hole by the lapel of his jacket.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ …” Gil dragged him away from the gaping pit and spitting rapids, minding his left hand’s swollen knuckle and awkwardly-bent middle finger. “Christ.  _ Bright _ .” He hauled Malcolm up into his lap, pushing away the icy chill that rippled down his spine at the contact of Malcolm’s freezing form against his as he tucked him against his chest. The kid’s body flopped, his head lolling with his mouth open, lips and fingernails tinged purplish-red, his skin unnervingly sapped of color. Gil leaned in. “Bright. Wake up. Come on.  _ Please _ .”

As he hovered over Malcolm’s face, his shivering stalled.

Whatever relief Gil had felt puddled at his knees as he lifted Malcolm higher and pushed his ear over Malcolm’s sternum.

His heart thrummed fast, too fast, but his chest remained still, unbreathing.

“ _ Shit _ .” Gil quickly lowered Malcolm onto the ice. “ _ Shit _ , not like this, kid.  _ Not like this. _ ” Shaking the pain from his broken finger, Gil tipped Malcolm’s head back by his chin, pinched his nose shut, and pushed breaths into his lungs.

Malcolm’s chest rose and fell.

Gil cursed, sucked in a breath, and went down again.

They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t  _ be here _ , and it was suddenly hitting Gil hard and like a shovel to the face that  _ Malcolm _ was sprawled across the ice receiving  _ rescue breaths _ from his  _ father figure _ and it  _ shouldn’t _ be happening.

Malcolm jerked underneath him. Gil pulled away as Malcolm sputtered, coughing up water and spit and vomit as his eyes flew open and he gasped for air. He blinked up at the sky as he wheezed, his lungs whistling, throat raw from the water. Gil gingerly pulled him back into his lap, bracketing an arm across Malcolm’s spasming chest as he sputtered and struggled to breathe deep.

“That’s it, kid. Just breathe. Breathe with me. Nice and easy.” Gil held him closer against his violent tremors, his body spasming from the cold, the hypothermia that was slowly taking over his functions. “Just breathe.” Gil ran his uninjured hand through Malcolm’s soaked hair, cupping his forehead to ease Malcolm’s head back and tuck it under his chin. “Just breathe, Malcolm. You’re okay.”

“C-Can’t... _ breathe… _ ” Malcolm rasped. He clawed at Gil’s arm, spiraling into a panic as his shaking deepened beyond muscle and burned him from the inside out. “I-I  _ c-can’t _ …”

“Yes you can.” Gil’s teeth clattered together in his skull. He forced himself to still, to relax, but the cold ripped through him as a gust kicked snow against them and he began rocking, instinctually, willing Malcolm to just  _ relax _ and  _ breathe _ with him. “Just breathe with me, kid. You’re all right.”

“H--...It  _ hurts _ …” He wheezed with an open mouth, gulping air. “C-Can--...”

“Let’s get you up.” Gil shifted, adjusting to be able to slide out from underneath Malcolm. “Can you stand?”

Malcolm stared up at Gil, squinting past the sun. His eyes were bloodshot, angry from being opened underwater, likely. Malcolm blinked. “...What?”

“Can you stand, kid?” Gil repeated. He heard the crunching of snow on the riverbank and glanced up to Dani peering across the frozen river, her face wrenched tight with worry. Gil waved her closer. He looked back down at Malcolm. “Bright? Did you hear me?”

“I--... _ What? _ ” Malcolm mumbled something to himself, the ending trailing off as a weak, “...what...happened…?”

From across the river, Dani called out, “You guys all good?”

“We’re good!” Gil shouted back. He turned to Malcolm, who hadn’t even flinched. He squinted up at Gil, a clueless expression softening his features. Rather than standing, he pulled Malcolm tighter against him, his good hand hovering over where Malcolm’s heart hammered heavy and erratic. He asked, “We’re all good, right, Bright?”

Malcolm coughed up more water in response.

Dani cautiously crossed the ice, minding one step at a time, her eyes tentative and lips pressed to a thin line. The wind whipped her hair wildly the further she got from land, and the closer she got to them. As she neared them, she said, “Car’s running. An ambulance can’t get out here fast, but Mercy General’s waiting for us.”

Gil replied with a curt, “Help me get him up.”

She nodded without protest, reaching for Malcolm’s wrists as Gil tucked his uninjured hand under Malcolm’s right arm. On three, they hauled him to his unsteady feet.

Malcolm’s eyes rolled up. He tipped forward. Gil wrenched him backwards as Dani grabbed his jacket, struggling to keep him upright with his legs underneath him. Malcolm snapped to attention with a shudder. “Jesus, Bright, you good?” she muttered, looking him over with a pinched brow.

“I--I  _ can’t _ …” He choked again, his cough rough and painful as what little air he could get strangled him. “I  _ can’t breathe… _ ”

“Relax.” Gil rubbed his sternum lightly, trying to simultaneously warm him and calm him down. “Just relax. We’re going to a hospital right now.” He glanced at Dani, then to Malcolm’s left side. She slipped around, pulling his noodle-limp arm across her shoulders as Gil did the same with Malcolm’s right. Moving slowly, Dani and Gil guided Malcolm off the ice as he gasped and hacked up more water and bile and spit.

Gil wasn’t stupid. He knew of secondary drowning, of the risks of pneumonia and tissue damage to the lungs and throat. He knew the next twenty-four hours would be critical for Malcolm, and the following seventy-two would be painfully uncomfortable. But he  _ begged _ for Malcolm to see another day. He couldn’t die from something as  _ pathetic  _ as throwing a hissy fit and crossing a frozen lake. He couldn’t die from Gil bringing him out into the middle of nowhere just to question a potential suspect.

He couldn’t die because  _ of Gil. _

Sometimes, he caught himself thinking like that about Jackie. Sometimes, when the late was night and his house was isolatedly silent and empty, he caught himself  _ believing _ that he was the root of Jackie’s cancer, that he was the root of Malcolm’s living nightmare, that he was the root cause to everything that had ever gone wrong. It was obnoxious, he knew, and he knew that it ultimately wasn’t true - that Jackie would have gotten cancer no matter what, and that Malcolm’s life was going to be hell whether he was there or not - but it didn’t hurt any less when the thoughts came, when the toxicity ran rampant through him and strangled him in his own home, in his own mind.

He wondered, often times, after being throttled by his own thoughts: was that what Malcolm went through?

Dani said, quietly, snapping him back to the present. “It’s not your fault.”

“What?” Gil glanced up. Malcolm had drifted somewhere being lucid and semi-conscious, his feet dragging behind him for the most part, leaving a trail of snow. When had they stepped up and back onto the path?

“It’s not your fault.” Dani repeated. Malcolm’s head rested awkwardly against his own shoulder from where it was pulled up across Dani’s. “He does stupid things. You know that.”

“Ah.” Gil nodded stiffly. “Well, you know what they say. First rule of management is, everything’s your fault.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Dani said, deadpanned, “You’re our  _ boss _ .”

“A boss is a manager.” Gil retorted.

“No.” She shook her head. “A boss is  _ a boss _ . You  _ tell  _ us what to do, not... _ babysit _ what we do and  _ how _ we do it.” The car came into view, a lump of black in the otherwise white wasteland. Dani walked faster. Gil huffed, keeping up the pace. “And besides, I’m my own person. You can’t just... _ claim credit _ for everything like that. That’s...not how this works. We’re a  _ team. _ ”

They pulled up next to the car. Gil instantly began thawing against the warmth it kicked off. Cringing, he opened the back door handle with his pointer finger, groaning against the stretch to the cracked bone. As he lowered Malcolm to the edge of the seat, Malcolm nearly toppled forward, his eyes half-lidded and breaths short. Gil caught him as he knelt down before him. A knot lodged in his throat as he said, “Bright? You still with me?”

Malcolm stared ahead, beyond him, through him into the nothingness. His shivering began to slow, working through him as a weak tremble instead of a violent tremor. Whatever hypothermia he had sustained had worsened, as Gil feared. Malcolm wheezed, breathing cut curt and sounding pinched and painful.

He was getting worse.

_ Much  _ worse. And  _ fast _ .

Quickly, Gil tugged the layers off of Malcolm’s body, opening his waterlogged wool coat and suit jacket, stripping them off and dropping them in a pile behind him. He tugged off one shoe, and then the other, and the socks to follow, and tossed them into the snow as well.

Behind him, still hovering, Dani mumbled, “What are you--?”

“He’s hypothermic.” Gil said. “We’ve got to get his temperature up.” He gestured to the trunk of the car. “I’ve got an emergency bag back there. It’s got a blanket. Grab that, and put his stuff back there?”

Dani obliged, scooping his soaking wet clothes up and tossing them in the trunk as Gil eased Malcolm down against the black back seats and made short work of wrangling his tie off and unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Malcolm weakly swatted at Gil, slurring, “Wh’t’re--...wh--... _ dad? _ ”

Gil breathed around the knot swelling at the dip of his throat. He shook his head and pushed on, grabbing for Malcolm’s belt. “Sorry kid, but we don’t have time for dignity right now.” He went as fast as his broken finger allowed. Behind him, Dani tossed the blanket to the floor of the car as Gil handed her his shirt, belt, and soon after, pants.

The plaid blanket was giant, even for Gil’s six feet. Malcolm easily tucked underneath it from neck to toe, his body beginning to vibrate from the cold.

Good. He was warming up. Gil sighed. He pulled himself the rest of the way into the car as Dani slammed the trunk closed and rushed to the driver’s seat. As Gil eased himself onto the car floor, snug between the passenger’s side and the back seats, Dani said, “Is he going to be all right, you think?”

The car rocked forward, jostling the three of them. His broken hand hit the dash and he hissed, liquid fire coiling up through his wrist. “He’ll be fine.” Gil cradled his now throbbing hand to his chest. “He’ll be fine…”

He had forgotten nearly about it. The bones had ached and hurt but something in him drowned it out. All he could see, could feel, could hear,  _ could think _ , was Malcolm. He focused on his kid, watching his chest rise and fall shallowly as he gasped for breath. His hair flopped back and forth with every jerk of the car, eyelids fluttering, teeth chattering loud.

Gil glanced up at Dani. She stared ahead, on the road, hugging the turns a bit too tight, her foot a bit too heavy on the gas. With her completely transfixed on getting them to the hospital, Gil shrunk into himself and began to pray.

He prayed for Malcolm to keep breathing, to just keep breathing until they reached the hospital, and then keep breathing until he was released, and keep breathing for years to come. He prayed with his chin to his chest, pleading with his eyes squeezed shut and lips forming the silent words because Malcolm was  _ his son _ , his  _ only family left _ . His parents were dead, his wife was dead, he never had siblings, and never grew attached to distant family.

Malcolm was it.

He was all Gil had left.

And so Gil prayed. He prayed, and begged, and pleaded as they pulled onto the main roads and headed towards the closest township twenty miles away.

* * *

**_CHAPTER TWO_ **

Gil had moved halfway through the drive, switching footwells to crouch between Dani’s seat and where Malcolm’s head rocked tapped against the door with every bump of the car. Malcolm’s chest heaved, whistling with every breath, his eyes pinched at the corners in pain. A visceral shiver ripped through him. He clamped his jaw. His lashes fluttered shut. Gil knew it would be dangerous for Malcolm to sleep, but he wanted nothing more than to let him, to offer him that slight reprieve from the day.

_ God _ , it had only been a day.

Something poisonous swelled inside Gil, black and molding and toxic as it grew its roots into his gut, oozing its sickness through his veins. It had only been  _ a few minutes _ since Malcolm had dropped through the ice. It had only been  _ a few goddamn minutes _ since Gil had dragged him out, had given him what rescue breaths he could in the agonizing cold.

If it had been only a few minutes more, Gil may have been driving a body to the morgue.

His unbroken hand had found Malcolm’s dampened fringe in his panic. As he tuned back into the world, he noticed his fingers as they carded through Malcolm’s hair, smoothing the cold strands back into place, to where they normally were when his kid wore his thousand-dollar suits.

Malcolm stared up at the roof of the car. He blinked sluggishly, his consciousness clearly dissolving before Gil as his focus distanced and his expression flattened.

“Bright…” Gil whispered. “Hey, kid, you with me?”

Malcolm’s eyes began to roll back.

“Gil?” Dani called. “Everything good back there?”

Gil leaned closer to Malcolm. “Kid, hey,” He gently brushed his palm to cup Malcolm’s jaw. “Hey, you still with me? Stay awake, Bright.  _ Bright. _ ”

Malcolm came back to him with a hitched wheeze. His eyes were unfocused as he glanced sideways at Gil.

“Hey,” Gil choked out. “You still with me? Hospital’s…?”

“Ten minutes out.” Dani finished.

“Ten minutes.” Gil repeated. “You got that? Just ten minutes.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to respond. A strangled noise came out, and he winced as he clicked his teeth shut and opted for a weak nod. The kid bled defeat, bled an aching exhaustion that Gil could never dream to sympathize with as Malcolm struggled against whatever threatened to pull him under. He had nearly drowned, undoubtedly experiencing the horror of being submerged in the dark, the cold, the rushing quiet of the river water. But did he experience the wonder of if he was going to die? Did he wonder if Gil would find him, would save him, or did he give up? Or perhaps, did Malcolm not remember those few seconds? Gil had pulled him out unconscious, not even breathing on his own. Did he remember anything at all?

Gil’s heart skittered.

Malcolm had stopped  _ breathing _ .

He hung his head, cradling his throbbing hand closer to his chest.

Malcolm could have  _ died _ . Right then. Right there.

Just like Jackie had.

One moment, she was warm, smiling, whispering to him, “everything’s going to be okay” as she leaned back in her chair, the nurses administering the chemotherapy to her weakened body. One moment, she had been ushering Gil to relax as he hunched over her bed, her eyes glistening with weakness as she reminded him of their anniversary, of their first meeting, of their wedding. One moment, she was cooing him, dragging her thumb over the back of his hand as he clutched hers tightly in a shaking grip, repeating, “please don’t take her, not her, please no, please I’ll do anything please God no”.

And the next, she was gone. She had faded away, the muscles in her face going lax as the light, as the fire in her eyes dimmed

Within a breath, Jackie was dead.

There had been no gravitas, no grand gesture from above.

She was there, and then, she wasn’t.

Malcolm had been there, standing before him, eying him like a grounded child would their parent, as a smirk quirked his lips and he walked proudly across the ice. 

The next, he was gone. Underwater.  _ Dying. _

Gil had dragged him out, out of that darkness, and for a moment, all he could see was Jackie. And he cracked. Just as something inside him cracked when he had seen the silence in Jackie, Gil had cracked at the silence in Malcolm. Normally so animated, so  _ alive _ , buzzing with anxiety and enthusiasm and adrenaline and  _ life _ , something twisted and snapped off inside Gil to see him so…

...dead.

Like Jackie.

Jackie had been looking at him as she passed. She had been looking into his eyes, speaking all the words she couldn’t with her lingering gaze, her warmth, her shaking smile. But then she had died and Gil’s mind stuttered at the  _ thing _ staring back at him, at the  _ nothingness _ that wore his wife’s face as the monitors flatlined and the room dissolved into silence.

Death wore her face like a mask.

And for a split second, staring down at Malcolm on the ice, Gil had seen that same nothingness wearing his son’s face, too. He did what he had for Jackie, had pleaded and begged and  _ screamed _ inside for someone, for  _ anyone _ to save him, to save Malcolm, to save  _ Gil  _ from such a nightmare reimagined. But he did what he never could for Jackie. He had leaned in, had breathed life into Malcolm and the nothingness’ mask shattered as his son dragged in a breath on his own.

And for a moment, Gil thought Malcolm had defeated death.

He thought he had defeated the  _ thing _ that stole his wife.

But instead, it settled heavily over Malcolm once more, laying on top of his struggling chest, pressing what precious air he could draw in, back out of him. It was vengeance. Vengeance against Gil for playing with the fire of life, perhaps...

Malcolm coughed weakly, choking on nothing as his lungs spasmed. His body jerked with every wet hack as he sputtered and gasped and writhed on the back seats. Gil hissed through clenched teeth.

“You good?” Dani repeated, softer.

Gil didn’t look away from Malcolm. “Just keep driving.” he rasped. The car lurched as Dani shifted gears and drove faster, her foot heavy on the gas. Gil jumped as the sirens flicked on, its wails ripping through the humming silence. He turned to look at Dani through the rearview. She firmly nodded to him, then focused back to the road.

Malcolm breathed hard. His eyes flicked open, then shut, then open again, dipping him in and out of awareness. Gil doubted the kid was lucid, but he was moving and breathing and was  _ alive _ and that was all that mattered to him as he exhaled shakily around the tears that burned his eyes. He wouldn’t let the nothingness wear Malcolm like it had worn Jackie. He  _ couldn’t _ let death take his son like it had taken his wife.

“Just keep breathing, kiddo.” Gil murmured. He lowered his forehead to Malcolm’s. “Just keep breathing.”

He wasn’t an idiot. Gil knew Malcolm risked pneumonia, risked drowning dry, risked a plethora of complications the longer he stayed from medical intervention and with every rattling breath he took, a poisonous thing inside Gil pulsed and grew. He felt dread like lead in his limbs, holding him down. He felt fear clouding his mind, his eyes, his heart as it whispered, “just like Jackie, he’s just like Jackie” over and over again.

Gil shook himself free. He threw his head back against the door. Above, the clouds rolled, thick and grey and soggy with snow. Swirling whites and silvers and pale blues churned angrily, swallowing the sun, spreading across the sky. The closer they got to the town, the darker the world got.

Hunching over himself, Gil eased his arm underneath Malcolm’s shoulders and dragged him closer. The kid was cold down to his bones, his body rattling hard. Gil tucked Malcolm’s head against his pulse point, at the joint of his neck and shoulder, easing into a manic calm at the heat of Malcolm’s forehead under his chin, at his shaking breaths brushing over his throat. He shook so hard Gil thought he would break into a seizure.

“G-G’l…?”

Gil pulled Malcolm closer. “Hey, Bright. You’re doing good. Just hang on a few more minutes.”

“Y--Y’r...hand? ‘S it...br--” A cough cut him off. The sickening seconds ticked by as Malcolm choked, back arching off the seats with the force of it. He flopped back against Gil as his breaths evened. He finished, rather pathetically, “...Brok’n?”

Ever observant, his kid. Gil felt a pang of pride in his heart. He blinked against the sting in his eyes. Tucking his shattered hand lower between his stomach and his bent legs, he said, “Just relax. I’m fine.” A warm laugh bubbled in his chest. “It’s  _ you _ that’s causing all the problems right now.”

Malcolm made a soft sound. “S’rry…” he rasped.

“Don’t be, kid.” Gil hushed him soothingly. “Just keep breathing. Okay? Just keep breathing.”

Malcolm hummed. “Th--” He wheezed. “That’s...th’plan…” His words grew more slurred. “D’...ni?”

“I’m here, Bright.” Dani called over the siren. “Just hang on. We’re coming into town now.”

Gil glanced up through the window once more. A brick building flew past them, a towering shadow that blocked out the sky above. Snow began to tap against the glass, spotting the windows in rolling white beads. He heard Dani fiddling with the vents and nudging the heater’s dial as far as it would go. Gil felt lightheaded from the warmth cranking through the car, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the distant ache in his hand that kept time with his heartbeat. He focused his everything on Malcolm.

Malcolm, whose shivering slowed.

Malcolm, who slackened suddenly against Gil.

Another building loomed on by. A house followed after. And then a store. Then another building, in the heart of the town at last, and Gil gingerly maneuvered Malcolm back onto the seat and leaned over him.

Malcolm was still.

Too still.

“Dani…” His voice came out quieter than he wanted. “ _ Dani.  _ Drive faster. Drive--... _ Christ _ . He’s not breathing.”

“ _ What? _ ” Dani snapped. She ran through a red light. “What happened?”

“Just  _ drive _ .” Gil got to his knees and tilted Malcolm’s head back once more, sucking in a breath and quickly delivering it. Malcolm’s chest didn’t rise. He didn’t rouse at all. A whimper crawled up Gil’s throat as he dove forward again, breathing as hard as he could. “Come on, Malcolm,  _ come on _ .”

Dani muttered something from the front seats. The sirens snapped off, the car jolting to a stop. Dani flung the passenger’s side door open as Gil was giving another breath to Malcolm. He reeled back and she lunged forward, dragging Malcolm out of the car with her arms hooked under his shoulders. The blanket slid off of him but Dani didn’t seem to care as she pulled his upper body flush against her and pulled him halfway out.

Gil scrambled out of the footwell. Carefully but quickly, Dani slid Malcolm into Gil’s awaiting arms. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him.” His swollen hand jarred and he grunted from the sharp pain that snapped up his arm like a bolt of lightning. Dani rushed ahead of him, through the local hospital’s emergency room doors. Gil scurried after her, kicking the car door closed and cradling Malcolm’s boneless body to his chest as he entered the building. His body protested from the added weight, from the  _ dead _ weight, from the ache in his hand and the jump from hot to cold to hot once more and Gil shuddered against it all.

White lights and sterile halls blinded him as he ran forward aimlessly. He heard screaming, shouting from Dani as she cried out, “I called you earlier!” and “He’s not breathing!”, and nurses and doctors screaming out orders and codes. A flurry of white coats and scrubs and darting hands and arms seamlessly lifted Malcolm from Gil’s hold and placed him on a gurney.

The staff wheeled Malcolm to an empty corner of the ER and snapped to work. Gil and Dani drifted to the back wall of the room, away from the chaos.

“What happened?” a nurse asked. 

Gil went numb. “He fell. Into a river.” He forced himself to be monotone, to be void, as he spoke, “Was underwater for a few seconds. Maybe a minute at most.” He swallowed. The poisonous thing in him stabbed him in the heart as he mumbled, “I had to administer rescue breaths. He wasn’t breathing…”

Another nurse clipped a pulse oximeter to Malcolm’s finger. A doctor tilted his head as he said, “Severe laryngospasm. Let’s intubate. Laryngoscope.” He held his hand out. Another doctor slapped a metal scythe-shaped tool in his palm. The man crowded over Malcolm, adjusting the kid’s neck a bit more as he slid the tip into his mouth, held it still, and reached out once again. “ET tube.” A gloved hand passed a thin clear tubing to him.

Gil’s stomach twisted. He stood with his back flat against the room wall, palms splayed against the cold brick as his body overheated from the tension, from his muscles burning with the desire to move, to help, to run away screaming and pleading for Malcolm to just  _ live. _

“Sir…?”

He gawked at the sight of the tube disappearing down Malcolm’s throat, a swift movement that was taken over by a sloppy taping of the tube to his mouth and a machine wheeling into view.

“ _ Sir? _ ”

Another voice said something, something like, “two-hundred milliliters of saline” and “heat packs” and “gown” and “upstairs”. Someone stabbed the back of Malcolm’s hand with a needle, a sharp jab that left a bead of blood behind. Gil’s vision whited out as he watched Jackie, watched her needle-pricked hands and arms, watched her sunken body, watched as death stared up at him.

“Gil.” Dani slapped Gil’s arm lightly. His eyes snagged on the woman standing directly in front of him, almost at eye-level in the otherwise relatively empty emergency room.

Malcolm was gone.

Gil jerked. He glanced around. “Where’s…?”

“Bright? They took him upstairs. Just now.” Dani whispered, “Don’t you remember?”

“I--...” He blinked hard. “No…”

The woman’s gloved hand was gentle as it peeled Gil’s broken one off the wall. “Sir, your hand is broken. We should get that x-rayed and splinted--”

“NYPD.” Gil wrangled his badge from his hip. “Tell me where he is. Where’s Malcolm.” The nurse wilted. Gil yanked his hand free. “Where’s. Malcolm. Bright. Tell me now.”

“ _ Gil _ .” Dani hissed. “What are you doing?”

“Where’d they take him, Dani?” Gil whipped around to face her. She looked startled, her eyes wide but brows dipped in concern.

“Upstairs.” she said. “They said they were putting him in a gown. Didn’t want to do it down here, Gil…” She looked him over hesitantly. “Didn’t you hear any of that?”

“What?” He sputtered.

The nurse tried, gently, “Sir. Please, we should get your hand checked. It’s not safe to let a break like that sit unattended. Ma’am,” She turned to Dani. “Bryan can get you to reception.” Her hand waved somewhere, but Gil fixated on her, on her serenity even as doubt bubbled up inside of him.

The word tumbled out before he could stop them. “Where’s my son…?”

Dani glanced up at him. The nurse cocked her head. “He’s upstairs, sir. With a good team. Your son will be just fine, I’m sure.”

Heat burned over Gil’s chest, then, up his neck and blazing his cheeks bright as Dani stared over at him with a raised eyebrow. It wasn’t a look of judgement, but more of restrained surprise. Over the years, Gil had learned her tells, and her expressions, and while Dani was not one to give herself away through a mere glance, he had found that it was the one thing she was terrible at hiding.

Surprise.

It surprised him, too. The surge of protectiveness, of open admittance that Malcolm was like his son, the child he could never have due to his own physiological issues. It surprised him enough to make him blush and bite at his lip, but it surprised him more when Dani patted his shoulder like nothing was odd and said, “I’ll get us all registered. And I’ll move the car. You? Take care of your hand.”

He nodded to her. Dani brushed past him and towards another awaiting nurse, Bryan. The two disappeared down another hallway and Gil zoned out.

His body operated on autopilot, fading in and out between the x-ray, the splinting, the medication, the information. All he could see was Malcolm, prone, dying, going stiff from the cold. He remembered flashes of movement, of sharp pain, of a nurse holding a pair of dark blue scrubs out in front of him, saying, “Your clothes are still wet, sir.” But all he could think of was Malcolm, of how he was going to protect his son from that moment on, from that moment on and no later, he would shield Malcolm from whatever came his way. “He doesn’t need shielding,” Dani had said. He remembered her shoving the scrubs into Gil’s pliant arms and turning him to the men’s restroom. “What he needs is extra therapy sessions. Now go change.” But all he could see, could feel, could touch was Malcolm, dead on the ice, his eyes staring up as death wore his face.

“Family of Malcolm Bright?”

Gil jerked upright, nearly tumbling out of the chair he had been slouching in. His back ached as if he had sat there for hours, his legs numb, his splinted finger fuzzy with anesthetic. Dani, to his right, got out of her chair smoothly. She glided up next to Gil as a doctor approached them, clipboard in hand.

“You good?” Dani asked, hushed.

The doctor flipped through the clipboard, striding over to them.

Gil shrugged. “Tired. I think.”

“Are you...Malcolm Bright’s family?” the doctor asked. He was different from the man in the emergency room, who had shoved an endotracheal tube down Malcolm’s throat. This was an older man, aging poorly, with wrinkles cut into his forehead and jowls and hands lined with raised veins, but his eyes radiated youth.

Dani said, “We’re his coworkers. His family can’t make it out.”

“What?” Gil said loudly, dumbfounded. “Jessica...Ainsley? They can’t get out here?”

“You were with me when I called, Gil.” Dani pulled her lower lip between her teeth.

The doctor asked, “Sir, are you all right?”

“Lieutenant.” Gil corrected. His hand dropped to his hip, where his badge usually was. He brushed against the scrunched waistband of the scrubs and sighed. “Lieutenant Arroyo, with the NYPD.” Swallowing his confusion, Gil held out his hand. The doctor shook in firmly.

Dani followed suit. “Detective Powell. NYPD.”

The doctor bowed his head. “Thank you for your service. All three of you. My brother-in-law is a cop with the NYPD.” Gil cleared his throat. The doctor sucked in a breath awkwardly. “ _ Yes.  _ Um, so, Malcolm. He’s...well, first thing’s first. Malcolm’s going to be just fine.”

A weight lifted off Gil. He deflated

The doctor continued, “He came in presenting mild hypothermia and a severe laryngospasm - where the throat closes up - due to the water in his lungs.” The man gestured to his throat, then back down to the clipboard. “It was smart of you to remove his wet clothing. It reduced the risk of further hypothermia by a lot, and therefore reduced the risk of further complications as well. Very well done.” He flipped through the pages. “And administering the rescue breaths was a smart move, lieutenant Arroyo. Malcolm certainly would not have survived if you hadn’t.

Rather than the pleased look that splayed lightly over Dani’s features, Gil’s expression wrenched tight. He nodded shallowly as his heart hammered hard and fast under his ribs.

Malcolm would have  _ died _ without him. He would have died…

...just like Jackie.

‘We administered a warm saline solution for the hypothermia,” the doctor continued. “And heat packs. And our emergency room physicians thought it best to intubate Malcolm to avoid complications with his lungs. They need time to heal, see? And if he’s breathing and awake, then it’ll make it difficult for them to heal. So, intubation was a safe route alongside his hypothermia and laryngospasm. For now, we’re going to monitor for pneumonia, as well as other complications that come with dry drowning. Though, I don’t really think we have to worry. Are there any questions?”

“Wait.” Gil held up his splinted hand. “You said ‘awake’. ‘Breathing and awake’, that’s what you said, right? Is Malcolm sedated?”

Dani glared between Gil and the doctor.

The doctor threw out his palm defensively. “He is. But under the guidance of one of our anesthesiologists. It’s some...pretty intense sedatives. But we didn’t want him waking with an ET tube down his throat. So we doubled up on the anesthetics.” The doctor dropped the clipboard down to his side. “Malcolm’s going to stay unconscious for some time. A  _ dreamless _ unconsciousness, lieutenant Arroyo. Don’t worry. We have it covered.” He patted Malcolm’s charts on the clipboard for emphasis, a smile wrinkling his face.

Dani nudged Gil’s side. “See? He’s fine. Like I said he’d be.”

Gil didn’t respond. He mumbled out, “Can we see him?”

“Of course. Come with me.”

The man guided Gil and Dani through the near-empty small-town hospital hallways, past parked wheelchairs and near-empty nurses stations. “I have to apologize. We’re pretty low-staffed today, since the winter weather advisory. It’s a bit deserted around here…”

“It’s quiet.” Dani hummed.

“It is.” The doctor nodded.

Gil followed behind him, floating despite his legs moving. He didn’t feel as if he were walking, but merely apparating behind the man, letting the sounds and the colors warp together as his mind clicked and glued onto one thing: Malcolm.

He had to see Malcolm.

See him alive. Breathing.  _ Awake _ .  _ Alert _ . 

The doctor stopped at one of the wooden doors. He pushed it open and held it as he gestured them inside. Gil floated in silently, his eyes fixed on Malcolm, on the wires sprouting from under his gown, connected to machines. He fixed on the IV in his hand and the tube down his throat, forcing air into his lungs, automating a breath with every heavy beat of Gil’s heart.

“So as you can see, he  _ is  _ sedated quite heavily.” The doctor stood behind Gil, somewhere. Dani scooted a seat closer to Malcolm’s bedside. She dropped down unceremoniously and looked up, past Gil, at the doctor. “But we’re planning on having him wake within a few hours. Then, we will remove the tube, get him a breathing mask, and go on from there.”

“Thanks.” Dani pulled on a tight smile.

The doctor went silent, and the door clicked shut. Gil figured the man left and, with the stranger behind him gone, Gil finally wobbled over to an empty chair opposite of Dani, on the other side of Malcolm’s bed. He dropped down hard, his eyes unfocused on the room around him, his attention zeroing in on Malcolm. Every hushed whir of the ventilator echoed in Gil’s ears. Every rise and fall of Malcolm’s chest burned through his eyes and into his heart, into the deepest part of him that still gnawed on the raw guilt Jackie had left behind.

He glanced up at Dani.

She curled in her chair, her feet propped up on the side of Malcolm’s bed, scrolling through her phone absently. But her eyes didn’t flick left and right with the screen, and her finger moved at an astonishingly rhythmic pace. Gil released a breath past his lips.

“You know,” He began, catching Dani’s eyes. “I was in a similar…” He wagged his hand over Malcolm’s prone form. “...a similar  _ situation _ . With Jackie.”

Dani blinked slow. “Malcolm’s not Jackie.”

“No I know…” Gil mumbled half-heartedly. He doubted Dani believed him. He didn’t believe himself. “I know that.” He leaned back in his chair, trying to ease himself into the moment. Malcolm was alive. The doctor assured them he would be just fine. He was on a ventilator for  _ precaution _ , not for  _ necessity _ . The IV was  _ warm saline _ , not  _ chemotherapy _ . He would open his eyes and it would be Malcolm, and nobody else. Nobody would be wearing his face. His blazingly blue eyes would smile back at Gil, not stare through him as his light went out. He knew that. He heard that and he knew that would happen.

Dani had turned back to her phone. But her finger was stagnant on the screen, her eyes drooped and dazed.

Gil continued, “I know that, it’s just…” He scooted forward in his chair. His heart washed out the other sounds in the room. “She was fine. Before, I mean. She was fine. It was...just a little lump. She thought it was a skin tag. Barely...barely the size of a...a  _ pea _ . It was tiny. On her chest. Here.” He pointed off-center of his sternum, just to the left. “And they said it was breast cancer.”

Dani turned off her phone. She focused on Gil as he continued, “And even as she went through chemo rounds, through the pain, and the visits, and the thousands of dollars in debt, she was okay. She was fine.”

“Gil…?” Dani frowned.

“And then she wasn’t.” Gil mumbled to the floor. “She was fine, and then she wasn’t. The cancer...it metastasized to her lungs and she was dead within a week.”

Dani tried again, her voice lower, softer, “ _ Gil… _ What are you getting at?”

Gil shook his head. “What if that happens to Malcolm too?” 

The question hung heavy in the air. It hurt Gil’s shoulders it was so heavy, dragging him down further into his seat. He leaned over himself, hands weakly clasped together, careful not to jostle the splint. Tears beaded the corners of his eyes. His teeth chattered as his jaw spasmed against his roiling emotions, against the throbbing pain in his hand and the aching guilt in his chest, against the fear bubbling up like a toxic tonic, spilling into his words, his muscles, dripping off his tongue as he spat, “What if  _ he  _ dies  _ too? _ ”

Dani tossed her phone onto Malcolm’s bed. She leaned forward slowly, her elbows on her knees. Her voice came out even and clean as she asked, “How old is Malcolm?”

“What?” Gil’s face scrunched. For a brief moment, a reprieve surfaced in the sea of hurt. “What does that have to do with--?”

“How old is Malcolm?” Dani repeated, interrupting.

Gil whispered, “Thirty-one.”

“Does he have a predisposition to drowning? Or hypothermia?” she asked.

“No?” Gil scoffed. “Powell, there’s no such thing as--”

“And how old was Jackie?”

Gil’s tongue tightened against the roof of his mouth. “F-Fifty-six. When she died.”

Dani asked, just as sternly as the previous questions, “Did she have a predisposition to breast cancer?”

“Yes…”

“Right.” Dani bit the inside of her cheek. Her eyes narrowed. “So you’re telling me that a healthy thirty-one-year-old man who isn’t predisposed to anything deadly is at the same risk as your fifty-six-year-old wife whose mother died of breast cancer?”

“Powell, I’m serious--”

“ _ I’m  _ serious, Gil.” She pointed to Malcolm. “He’s fine. He’s young, and healthy, and the doctors said that he’ll be just fine, right? So why are you still so  _ worried? _ ”

Gil licked his lips tentatively. “You were, too. Right?”

“Of course. I saw him fall through the  _ ice _ , Gil. I wasn’t even expecting to see him  _ at all _ .” Dani’s voice got louder, higher in pitch as she gesticulated with every word. “But he’s fine, and I can see that, and so it’s okay. Okay?”

“But what if he’s not?”

It wasn’t a question.

Dani tilted back in her chair. She sighed heavily. “Then we’ll figure it out when we figure it out, boss. One thing at a time…”

Gil shook his head. “I’m not going to just sit back and wait to see if he wakes up, Dani. I can’t just sit and wait because I  _ sat _ , and I  _ waited _ for Jackie, for the  _ chemo _ to work and it never did and…” His voice cracked as he trailed off into a blubber around his tears. He cleared his throat hard, swallowing the sounds threatening to rip up his throat as his heart curled in anguish. “I can’t wait...not like this...not again.”

Dani reached out across the bed. She held her hands, palms up, across Malcolm’s legs. Gil shakily dropped his unbroken hand into hers and she folded it between her fingers. She dragged Gil’s pointer and middle to her wrist, and said, “Feel that?”

“Your pulse?” Gil croaked.

Dani nodded. “Now…” She brought their hands up to Malcolm’s right hand, the hand closest to Gil, and she settled his fingers against the inside of his wrist. “What do you feel?”

“His pulse…” Gil whispered.

Dani asked, “And what does that mean?”

Gil said, softly, “He’s alive.” He dropped his head to his chin and sighed, hard, his shoulders shaking with more tears. “Damn this kid. Always getting into shit.” Gil’s fingers found root at Malcolm’s wrist, clinging to the strong beating under the light skin, holding onto the warmth that he kicked off, always running a bit hotter, a bit faster, than everybody else. “Even as a kid, he got into shit he shouldn’t have. Always wearing this shit-eating grin, too.”

Dani giggled. She went back to her chair and listened closely, folding her legs as she scooped her phone back up and into her lap. Gil continued, “Like, when he was…what? Sixteen. All right. So, he’s  _ sixteen _ , and...he decided that he’s going to be a badass on some campus near his high school. So these guys are all in their twenties, and build for the fucking football team, you know? And he was lucky Meyer and I were patrolling that night, because we found three huge-ass guys wailing on some scrawny five-foot-something in the middle of the street at two in the morning.

“And so we got out of the car, dragged these guys off the kid. And I knew it was Malcolm before I even got there. I knew it because no other scrawny kid would pick a fight with three guys that weighed two-hundred-something pounds each, right?” Gil chuckled at the memory. His fingers trailed up Malcolm’s arm absently, always finding the pulses; the center of his forearm, crook of his elbow, the inside of his upper arm. “And so, we took the guys into custody, shoved them all into our car, and I got to Malcolm and he--” Gil laughed. “His eyes were swollen to  _ shit _ , and there was blood all over his face and you know what he says to me? He says, ‘you’re welcome’.”

“Why?” Dani asked quietly.

Gil shrugged. His smile dropped slightly. “Those guys were passing out candies laced with cocaine to little kids at the elementary school down the block. Killed one of them with an overdose.” He looked back down at Malcolm. “Kid somehow found out, before us, before the cops, and tried to stop them.”

Malcolm remained unresponsive. His chest rose and fell in tune with the ventilator, his skin flushed with healthy color, his heart beating under the fingers Gil pressed to his wrist, under the hand Gil held over his chest.

He looked nothing like Jackie.

Jackie had been withering away, wasting to bone and blood and barely anything else. Her soul had been shattered as her fight drained from her with every needle stab, with every swab and stick and poke and prod of doctors and nurses and medicines and chemicals. She dissolved in Gil’s hands, right before his eyes.

But not his son.

Malcolm was still here, solid and breathing, a tangible person with an evident fire still burning inside him. Even unconscious, drugged to hell, he sparked an insane amount of anxiety in Gil. An anxiety that left him asking what Malcolm would do next. An anxiety that had him wondering if this would be the last time Malcolm wound up in a hospital.

But that anxiety could give Gil strength. Malcolm was the embodiment of mania, there was no doubt. But the anxiety spurred the kid on. It made him strive for things nobody dared to strive for. It made him reach for things because he didn’t know the difference between fear of trying and fear in general. And Gil could learn from him. He could learn from Malcolm’s fears, and his anxieties, and could to learn how to harness it just as Malcolm did.

He wanted to learn.

He wanted to be stronger. For the NYPD. For his team. And for his son.

“Malcolm’s not going to die.” Gil said.

Dani nodded. “He’s not.”

“And he’s not Jackie.” Gil raised his brow to Dani.

Dani agreed, “He’s not.”

Gil’s hands fell down Malcolm’s arm once again, settling for his wrist, gently turning it in his palm. He briefly traced the veins that pulsed under his fingers, pounding with pure life, with so much more than Jackie had in her last moments. His fingerpads caught on the small scars that dotted his forearm. His nails raked against the lines on the inside of his upper arm, their rows like pillars, stark against the otherwise smooth skin. Gil felt something build in him. Malcolm had overcome too much to die in a hospital like this. He had fought tooth and nail and clawed his way into an existence without his father, despite his ailments and struggles and fears and vulnerabilities.

His hand lingered over the self-inflicted wounds from decades ago. Gil felt Dani’s eyes hot on them, on Gil’s hands. Her voice came out determined as she said, “He’ll be fine, Gil.”

“I know.” Gil nodded. “He’s a fighter, after all.” He laughed, full-toothed, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Kid’s like a goddamn stick of dynamite. He’s tough. He’ll be fine.” As Dani turned back to her phone once more, Gil inched closer, sighing as he breathed out, “You’ll be just fine, son. You’ll be fine.”


	3. Juncture

Time stretched long and thin and warm, numbing Malcolm to the world, leaving him to drift somewhere in a stagnant silence. He felt the wisps of anxiety in his veins, a soft chill, but couldn’t find it in himself to care much. Why he was scared, and over what, became nothing but a slight gnawing at the back of his brain. A lightheadedness worked throughout his body, thrumming with his pulse, soothing him back to sleep.

What had happened?

There were spots in his memory. Little black blobs blocked out the truth, and Malcolm gently prodded himself for an answer, curious more than anything. Why couldn’t he figure it out? He recalled the hand in the box, gummy blood oozing from within. He remembered the phone call from Paul Lazar, the girl in the box, the man’s aggression intermingling with Malcolm’s own mania, poignant to those listening in. He had gone outside for air, had needed to escape from the too small room and the too large emotions puddling in his stomach.

He had followed Lazar.

To the tunnels.

Malcolm twitched, shifted, tried to move to stand.

Fire seared through his lungs. He startled himself to full consciousness, a raw cry ripping up his throat. Malcolm flailed for a moment, breathless, gasping. Planting his hands on the concrete, Malcolm lowered his forehead to the ground, sucking in sharp breaths through his teeth as he swallowed around the nausea and worked to will his ribs to stop stabbing him with spikes of shooting pain.

What had  _ happened? _

He had followed Lazar to the tunnels, the sickly green glow of the overhead lights burning his eyes. He had followed Lazar, careful, watching his surroundings, desperate to catch him. He had followed Lazar, but he  _ shouldn’t have _ , because Lazar nearly  _ killed him. _

Malcolm’s eyes flew open.

Lazar.

Where was Lazar?

He could still hear the crack of his ribs as the turnstiles crunched together, crushing his tiny body between the metal teeth. He could still feel Lazar’s hot breath on his neck, an animalistic panting as he cooed, “you even  _ smell _ like your father.” Malcolm shuddered. His breaths quickened and tightened in succession and Malcolm whined low. His gaze flicked around as his heart flooded his senses, drowning out everything around him.

Logic told him Lazar had been gone for a long time, but right now, time was timeless, a lingering emptiness inside Malcolm. How much time had passed? What time  _ was _ it, anyways? Was he gone long enough for someone to notice? Or had it only been a few seconds? How long had he been lying there, unconscious?

Malcolm wheezed, hyperventilating. His fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. He blinked fast, too fast, much too fast and flinched as something sticky and hot pooled in the corner of his eye. It rolled down, beading at the tip of his nose, before plopping to the concrete and as a black spatter. Blood? Was he bleeding? Malcolm choked on his panic.

Gil.

He needed Gil.

Malcolm gingerly eased his torso back onto the cold ground, relishing in the temporary numbness it provided but hissing as it grinded the cracked pieces of rib together. There was no doubt in his mind something had broken. Badly. And why the  _ hell _ was he bleeding? He couldn’t remember...

He needed  _ Gil. _

Slowly, Malcolm inched his hand down and into his pocket, fishing out his cellphone. He dragged it up to his face by the lip of the case, dropping it in front of him with a grimace as the tunnel tracked slimy sludge over his phone. The lock screen blurred. Malcolm whimpered. His composure chipped.

He needed Gil  _ goddamnit _ .

His jittery fingers mistyped his password once, twice, three times before Malcolm finally got his fingertip to hit the right numbers in the right order. He scurried for the contacts, hit Gil's name and speaker-phone, and waited.

And waited.

Ringing rolled off the hollow tunnels, reverberating through the puddles. It rang through his skull, carving out what little patience lingered as Malcolm felt his focus fade. A haze settled in his vision as he sucked in another breath and closed his eyes.

What if Gil didn’t pick up? Who would he call? Dani? JT? His mother? Perhaps Ainsley? Who would save him? What if  _ nobody _ saved him?

Malcolm’s breaths picked up involuntarily. The ringing persisted. He coughed around tears. Or was it blood? Was he coughing up blood?

“--ight? Kid,  _ talk to me _ .”

Malcolm jerked back to reality.

“Bright? Can you hear me? Where are you?”

“G'l...” Malcolm's tongue felt oddly fat in his mouth, not sitting comfortably at all. He groaned, his hoarse little moan sounding distant, echoing through his own skull. “Wha--?”

“Bright! Thank God...” Gil's voice came in sharp, staticky, as if he were talking through an old-school speaker. Nothing sounded right. Everything hurt his head, distorting him. “Bright. You need to tell me where you are. All right?”

“Tunn'l...” Malcolm mumbled. “Laz'r...I...” He took a deep breath. Fire exploded in his sides. He cried out, sputtering something incoherent even to himself as writhed, begging the pain to stop, for the hurt to pause, to wait, to just give him a moment to catch his breath  _ for fucks sake.  _ “Gil…!”

“Bright? Bright! Are you hurt? Come on kid, I need more than ‘tunnel’. Where are you?” Gil's assault of questions made Malcolm's head throb even moreso. He stilled his weak floundering on the pavement and just…sat. He refused to breathe save for the shallow gulps of air every few seconds. The agony subsided into a heavy pounding that rocked him in time with his pattering pulse. Gil, at his silence, said, softly, “ _ Malcolm, _ please. Where are you?”

Malcolm croaked out, “Tunnel. A tunnel...S-Service tunnel. Across...the street. Near...next to...a restaurant? Italian, I think...” Gil said something muffled to someone on the other end. A sob ripped up Malcolm's abused throat. “Gil... _ help me _ .”

“I'm coming, kid. Just hang tight.” Gil was breathing fast,  _ moving _ , Malcolm’s mind supplied. The hushed thrum of cars buzzed on the other end of the line. “Just hang on, Malcolm. Just keep breathing.”

“I...I  _ can't. _ ” Whether from the panic or the likely-shattered ribs, Malcolm couldn't tell. He didn't try to stop himself from crying rather loudly and pathetically at the sudden realization that someone was coming for him. Relief washed over him. He slouched against the cold concrete and time warped once again. Nothing felt real. Everything drifted. Malcolm dissolved.

The gate behind him shrieked.

Malcolm bristled. He wanted to run, to  _ run away _ from Lazar, but he couldn’t  _ move.  _ An involuntary sob escaped past his lips.

Footsteps rushed closer to him. They approached the turnstiles. Malcolm held his breath.

“Over here!”

_ Dani. _

Malcolm deflated at the sound of her voice. He heard more footsteps in the background as Dani’s boots rushed into his view. He strained to look up at her, neck craning and pulling at his chest awkwardly. His face scrunched in pain.

“Jesus, what happened?” Dani asked softly. She knelt next to Malcolm's body, hands hovering. Her eyes widened only slightly. “Can you move?” His head jerked side-to-side, a poorly gestured 'no' as Dani nodded in agreement and continued, “Gil and JT are coming--”

“Malcolm!” Gil interrupted. He skidded to his knees on Malcolm's other side. “Kid, hey, we've got you.” Gil's hand settled hot on the back of Malcolm's neck, and Malcolm relaxed into it, releasing the tension in all his muscles, giving in, nearly dropping his cheek into the muddy water if not for Dani's palm sliding underneath his face before he could hit the pavement.

He blinked lazily, breaths short, coherence dwindling.

“Damn, his head’s bleeding.” Gil scowled. “Think he’s got a concussion.”

Malcolm didn’t hear the answer. Fabric rustled loudly in the echo. More footsteps followed. The turnstiles squeaked faintly. He heard Dani above him, Gil talking from nearby, close and yet so far away. He knew that Gil was right next to him, hand firm and warm and draining all the fear from his body, but he sounded  _ so far away. _ What if he just...left?

Malcolm reached out blindly, quickly, lungs seizing.

Dani’s hand grabbed his. “I’ve got you.”

Malcolm closed his eyes.

Time dissolved.  _ Malcolm  _ dissolved. It felt better than the pain.

“All right, on three...”

His eyebrow twitched.

“Guys, I think he woke up.”

“Dude's been out for nearly ten minutes and  _ now _ he decides--”

“JT, stop. Okay, on three. Dani, watch his head. JT, you ready?”

Shadows of hands fell over his body: his shoulders, his legs, his neck and back and the curve of his head, everything felt fuzzily warm, a hovering heat as his body drifted in the timelessness.

“He's definitely awake.” Dani. Anxiety gushed out of her words.

JT mumbled something.

Malcolm huffed weakly. He cracked an eye.

“Okay,” Gil said sharply. Malcolm glanced around to find him, to follow his voice. “One,”

The hands solidified. Hot, strong hands.

“Two,”

They gripped him tightly, almost too tightly, snagging his clothes as handles. Malcolm shifted away weakly.

“ _ Three. _ ”

The hands moved, lifted, strained, and in the silence Malcolm heard himself scream as deep white-hot knives ripped through his skin, between his ribs, piercing his lungs and blood and body, nerves singed, heartbeat in his ears. He felt everything and nothing, colors popping in his vision as the world darkened dangerously, sounds heightened as his hearing deafened and narrowed to the panting, the heavy breaths above him.

Malcolm stared up.

He saw JT, but he didn't. He felt the man’s arms under his knees and shoulders, felt suspended, but felt nothing at all and everything at once. Every shift of JT's clothes, every subtle movement as he slowly rose to stand tall, Malcolm could feel. He could feel himself cradled tightly against JT’s chest, though. And he could feel his hand still gripped in Dani’s. Gil, nearby, asked something, underwater, drowned by Malcolm’s rushing pulse. JT nodded, and glanced down at Malcolm with a scrunched expression. “Yeah, I got him.” A beat passed, and JT said, “Hang on, man. We're getting you out of here.”

“How do we get him through that...?” Dani asked, hushed.

Equally quiet, Gil replied. “JT, how--”

“I got it.” JT gently shifted Malcolm, but Malcolm’s ribcage grinded awkwardly and he couldn’t swallow the breathless cry that was escaping him. He felt his head fall on top of JT's shoulder and peeled his eyes open. He was staring over JT's back, down at the floor, Gil's shoes at the edge of his vision. JT placed a gentle hand on Malcolm's back, the other under his thighs, cradling his body against JT’s chest like one would a toddler as JT inched them through the turnstiles. Malcolm felt his ears grow warm, utterly humiliated, though, through the crescendo of pain, he suspected he merely looked uncomfortable rather than mortified.

Malcolm took in a breath. JT lowered him back down into his cradled arms, flush against his chest, and Malcolm sagged. JT was moving, was walking fast but not too fast, the concrete above him smoothing from deep blue to light grey as they headed towards the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Careful.” Dani murmured, by Malcolm's head once again. She scooped up Malcolm’s dangling hand. Malcolm shifted, looking up at Dani as she hurried by JT's side. She smiled sourly. “Hey Bright.”

Malcolm opened his mouth. A croak came out instead. With a sigh, he deflated, sagging against JT, head lolling against his shoulder. His eyes fluttered closed.

“The ambulance is two minutes out.” Gil said, behind them. “We lose him again?”

Dani responded, “Don’t know.”

Gil’s voice strained as he said, “Careful, JT.”

“I know, I know.” Malcolm felt JT's chest expand and he drew in a breath. “Precious cargo, I get it.” He chuckled. “Good thing he's so damn small.”

Malcolm cracked a smile.

Dani asked, “He heavy?”

JT sucked in a breath and held it, puffing himself out. “Nah. Nah, not really. He's...basically as heavy as my niece. Tiny dude.”

Malcolm took in a small breath, testing how it scraped against his shredded throat, his broken ribs, before he whispered, “One...forty-four.” He cracked his eyes open. The light hurt his head, pain bouncing between his torso and his skull.

JT frowned down at him. “What's that, man?”

“I'm...one-hundred-forty-four pounds.” Malcolm breathed out a laugh. It toyed with his ribs and he winced, but said, “Y'r strong...”

A sigh of relief relaxed JT's arms as he chuckled, “Yeah, I know I am, dude. That's kind of my thing.” He walked up the staircase carefully. Dani rushed ahead to shoulder open the door. Light flooded the dark tunnel, blinding Malcolm. He turned away, into JT's jacket. Distantly, the wails of an ambulance slid closer.

Dani came up next to Malcolm's once again, blocking out the sunlight. “How're you holding up?”

“Embarrassed.” Malcolm smiled sheepishly, though.”"But...better. Decent. I'm...” He wheezed. “'m good.”

“Hang on, kid.” Gil's hand carded through his hair from where he had rolled into JT. “Just keep breathing.”

Malcolm nodded curtly. “How...How bad…’s it?” he slurred.

Dani said, “You’re all right.”

“Dude’s head’s cracked open.” JT hissed. Dani shushed him.

The sirens’ screams came to a stop. Red and blue flickered across the black expanse behind Malcolm’s eyelids. JT’s chest rumbled as he spoke, but Malcolm couldn’t fix his attention long enough for JT’s words to stick. Cool wind bit the bare skin of Malcolm’s hands, his neck, his cheeks. His fingers twitched, desperate to curl into the warmth pressed against his side. He figured, what’s one more humiliation?

More hands handled him around, and Malcolm felt JT move forward a step and gingerly lower his body down. The muscles in his arms strained, shaking to keep Malcolm as still as possible. Malcolm felt a plush gurney at his back, and relaxed.

Foreign voices closed in. Malcolm stared up at two unfamiliar faces.

Gil said, quickly, without thought, “I’m riding with you.” His hand settled at Malcolm’s forehead, thumb smoothing down the soft baby hairs at his temple as he said, “It’s not up for debate.”

“Are you next of kin?” an EMT asked.

Gil nodded. “I’m his surrogate father.”

“All right. Let’s go.” the other EMT said.

The clanking of the gurney being wheeled over the concrete rattled in Malcolm’s head. He closed his eyes for the last time, focusing on his breaths, on the hand still somehow smoothing through his hair despite the quick pace of the EMTs. The gurney jostled into the back of the ambulance, and Malcolm ground his teeth.

Gil said, close to his ear, “I’ve got you, kid. Just keep breathing.”

Malcolm didn’t nod, didn’t move. He took a breath, sturdy, strong somehow despite his pain, and kept breathing, and breathing, breathing to the rhythm of Gil’s hand combing through his hair as the doors slammed shut and submerged them in silence.


	4. Dial Tone

His team was coming.

Logically, Malcolm knew it. He knew it, just as he knew that up was above and down was below, just as he knew that Michael Hassenburg was their killer and that people couldn’t survive long in below-zero temperatures whilst locked in an airtight-sealed metal box.

It was simple logic.

Malcolm shifted, the built-in shelf no logger digging into his shoulders but, rather, his lower back. Yet another shiver ripped through hm, tensing his already clenched and aching muscles. His body practically vibrated, turned on high as it struggled to warm Malcolm in his frost-soaked suit.

Malcolm breathed in slowly.

His lungs protested.

He flooded his thoughts with that of the team.

His chattering teeth echoed in the void. Malcolm shifted again. He flopped onto his side, the shelf pushing in-between the sensitive bones of his ribcage. For a brief moment, Malcolm was almost  _ glad _ he couldn’t see himself. He was glad he couldn’t see what his skin looked like, what he must have looked like. He could feel the dimensions of the chest, but he couldn’t see it and, somehow, it allowed an air of trust in his team to build in his chest. Right beside his growing fear, his slow-burning anxiety, was confidence in Gil, and Dani, and JT to save him. To save him before his extremities turned black with frostbite. To save him before he ultimately suffocated inside the cramped little chest freezer.

The Freezer Killer.

That was what the media had called Hassenburg. Malcolm snorted, because of  _ course _ he would fall prey to a wiry old man who  _ froze _ his victims and then tossed the bodies outside to thaw. The man’s profile was erratic and nonsensical, a true confusion for even his father, when called.

They had spent weeks scratching names off their lists, whittling down their suspect pool and, while it hadn’t been ideal, Malcolm decided to scribble off a few more by himself. He had idled through a rather dense neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights, with relatively large townhomes and cropped front lawns, when he had come across Hassenburg’s address. The man had worked with several of the victims in a shipping yard, but he was a disintegrating man, with sagging skin speckled with dark sun spots, his veiny hands weak on the door as he had opened it slowly for Malcolm.

“My name’s Malcolm Bright, I’m a consultant for the NYPD. May I speak with you?” Malcolm had said.

Hassenburg had side-stepped, holding his coffee mug above Malcolm’s head as Malcolm dipped underneath his arm and inside the dark house. It had been cluttered, with nondescript stuffs towering up the walls, carpeting the floors, a small path the only leeway leading deeper into the mess. Malcolm had frowned, had recoiled at the sight, at the  _ smell _ , and as he turned to Hassenberg, a coffee mug cracked with the side of his skull.

The world rang in white as his ears pooled with his pounding pulse.

By the time he had had stirred awake, he was crammed into the freezer, his body already succumbed to the chill. Blood froze to the side of his face, cooling into a congealed, half-gummy, half-crusted mess.

It had been ironic, really. Nobody had known where Hassenburg was freezing his victims. They had guessed a restaurant’s walk-in, but it was still unknown.

Until now. Until Malcolm.

Because he was padlocked inside a  _ goddamn chest freezer _ in the basement of a  _ serial killer’s _ house.

Ironic.

Or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it made perfect sense, had they looked at their evidence closer. Perhaps the answers were before them already, as clear as the sky in broad daylight. Malcolm pondered the thought of daylight, the thought of seeing it again because, as he blinked and saw black, and opened his eyes to more black, the hope in him wilted and shriveled up into a disgusting, molding thing.

It poisoned his heart, oozing through him, making him doubt, making him fear.

Malcolm whispered to himself, “G-Gil’s coming. He’ll be...be here s-soon.”

The thing hissed, “But is he?”

“The t-teams...c-coming,” Malcolm hugged himself closer, wrapping his arms around his chest. “They’ll be here...h-here s-soon.”

“But will they?” the thing murmured.

“T-They a- _ are. _ ” Malcolm swallowed around the pain in his throat, the burn across his skin. “They are. I-I  _ called _ . I  _ c-called  _ for...for  _ backup. _ ”

But had he?

Malcolm had called. He had said, “Michael Hassenberg. I’m going to talk with him.”

_ “Bright, damnit. Wait for JT or Dani to get there.”  _ Gil had snapped.

Rightfully so.

But Malcolm didn’t wait. He had hung up on Gil, had knocked on that obnoxiously bright white-blue door and had smiled smoothly up at the rather benign-looking old man before him. He had called Gil, but he hadn’t  _ called for backup. _ It had been a mistake.

Possibly his  _ last _ mistake.

Malcolm’s head listed sideways, thunking against the frost-coated freezer wall. But it hadn’t hurt, not as he had thought it would. Instead, numbness buzzed down his spine, a chill seeping into his already stiff-cold skin. He blinked - a pointless action, he determined - as his numb fingers struggled to curl around his rigid suit jacket, struggled to hug himself tight and and keep himself warm.

Was it even working?

He had long-since stopped hurting. The needles of ice had stopped pricking his exposed skin. The shooting ache of slowly freezing to death had subsided. Even his chattering teeth had begun to still. Instead, Malcolm settled into a strange contentment, somewhere nestled right in-between desperation and fear, and embracing it all. Perhaps he was traveling through the stages of grief through himself, his own denial, his own bargaining, and his own ultimate acceptance of the situation.

Malcolm was going to die.

Dying, he realized, was much faster and far more desirable than many had made it out to be. Old poets had rambled about suffering at its hands, and philosophers mused about what had happened afterwards, but all Malcolm could think about was how  _ warm _ he was. He was  _ warm _ , for the first time in what felt like a long time. He couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few moments, and he couldn’t have been in the chest freezer for more than half-an-hour, but he was  _ warm _ , and  _ comfortable _ , floating in-and-out of consciousness, in-and-out of his miserable existence.

Malcolm was going to die, and that was that.

Distantly, he hoped his possible concussion would kill him. But no, he would suffocate long before he froze to death, long before his skull flooded with blood. He would wheeze and his lungs would clip as he strained for those last oxygen-rich breaths. But then that would be it.

That would be it...

While Malcolm could panic, and could cry and beg a nonexistent higher power for mercy, he could also go peacefully. He could let his eyes close and he could thank God - whomever  _ God _ may be - that he was done. That it was done. Never again would he wake up screaming, his throat stripped raw before the day even began. Never again would he shy away from help, from love, all while  _ desperately _ craving it, craving touch, craving acceptance, craving everything his mind told him, “You’re not worthy of it.” Never again would he worry Gil, or Ainsley, or his mother, or anyone else. Never again would he nearly stab his one-night stand, nor would he ever have to deal with a one-night stand or partner or relationship again.

It would be over.

One moment, Malcolm Bright - no, Malcolm  _ Whitly _ \- would exist.

And the next, he would not.

Malcolm accepted that.

He accepted death.

He  _ wanted _ \--

“Malcolm!”

Malcolm peeled his eyes open, dazedly blinking up into a white glow. Someone leaned forward, closer, a ring wrapping around the top of their head as they blocked the blinding light. Malcolm blinked, failed, his eyes staying shut, before he worked them open again - torturously slow - to Gil.

_ Gil. _

He stood over Malcolm, the glow around his head hiding his expression, and Malcolm had never seen something so trustworthy, so  _ whole _ in his life.

Gil, with a ring of light above his head.

Gil, wearing a  _ halo. _

Malcolm was dead.

He was dead, and Gil was there to greet him.

“Hang on,” The angel reached forward, gripping around Malcolm’s legs. His limbs felt swollen, as if they weren’t quite there. “Just hang on, Malcolm. We’ve got you.” Something solid slipped underneath Malcolm’s arms. His body flopped, useless, boneless as he was lifted, weightless, the light becoming brighter, almost painfully so and Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. “We’ve got you, kid. We’ve got you.”

Malcolm breathed in warm, fresh air.

The light on his face was almost like sunlight.

He sighed into it, smiled up at it.

Hard concrete settled beneath him. The solid somethings underneath his arms wrapped tighter, too hot, and Malcolm whined high in his throat at the sensation. At the prickling. At the  _ clawing  _ of his skin.

“He’s hypothermic.”

Dani?

Malcolm tilted his head up, nearly forgetting to open his eyes. He groggily stared at Dani, at her pinched features, at the flashlight held high above her head, aiming down at them. At Gil, who had already began working Malcolm’s clothes off of him, a pile of Hassenburg’s musty dull blankets beside him. At JT, who had his arms wrapped around Malcolm’s chest, cradling him close, large fingers working at the small buttons of his shirt. At  _ Malcolm himself _ , at his writhing as his skin began to breathe, his body began to turn back on and everything began to  _ burn. _

Gil wrapped Malcolm’s bare legs in one of the scratchy blankets. It scraped along his skin and Malcolm turned against it, trying to fumble away. JT held him fast, shrugging off his shirt and suit jacket in one swoop before swaddling him in another blanket and pulling him down against his chest.

“You’re going to be okay, Malcolm,” Gil patted his shin. Malcolm barely felt it. “You’re going to be just fine.” He turned his chin up towards Dani. “Time on that ambulance?”

“Six minutes.” She fussed her bottom lip, looking Malcolm over, before kneeling at his side. “You with us?”

Yes.

Malcolm was.

He was with them. He was with them, in the present as his body kicked into overdrive to absorb as much body heat from JT as it could, to conserve as much as possible between the two blankets wrapped around his upper and lower halves. He was with them, somehow not catching flame from the utter humiliation of the situation. He was with them, breathing, shaking, shivering so hard it  _ hurt _ and Malcolm wanted to snap at her, wanted to snap at  _ himself _ because he was alive.

He was alive.

Rather than answer, Malcolm blinked slow. His body shuddered into JT’s, unable to control it. JT held him close with two giant arms bracketing across his chest, mumbling something along the lines of, “It’s okay, bro. We made it.”

Gil inched closer. He brushed Malcolm’s frost-tipped fringe from his face, opting to rub his thumb along the side of his face. Malcolm hissed, pain lancing down his cheek, to his jaw, up around the curve of his skull as Gil prodded at the blood caked to his face. The ragged flap of skin began to drool blood once more, warmed, ready to expel the heat he had only just recovered.

With his hand still cupping Malcolm’s jaw, Gil leaned in, pushing his forehead against Malcolm’s. Gil’s skin was on fire, as if he were feverish.

He knew it was him who was frigid.

“I thought you were dead.” Gil whispered. “God, I thought you were  _ dead _ , Malcolm.” He pulled back, finger jabbing into the space between him. “Next time,  _ wait _ for backup, goddamnit. Yes, you  _ called _ . But now,  _ wait _ for it. Yes?”

Malcolm dragged his eyes over Gil’s extended finger. He couldn’t respond, even if he wanted to. His tongue felt too fat for his mouth, lolling awkwardly as his body thawed from the outside in.

Gil’s face crumpled at his silence.

Something cracked inside Malcolm, too.

Thawing, perhaps.

“Okay…” Gil knelt closer. “All right. Okay…” In a beat, he pulled Malcolm away from JT and into his arms, his hand at the back of Malcolm’s head, his forearm flat across the back of Malcolm’s shoulders. He rocked gently, slowly, as if moving too fast would break Malcolm, as if moving too much would shatter him like glass. He rocked, and rocked, and JT shuffled away. He rocked, and rocked, and Dani backed up, giving them space. Malcolm began to melt into Gil. He softened into his warmth, into his familiarity, into the hug that hadn’t changed even after two long decades of life hereafter his father.

Gil was a constant.

Logically, Malcolm knew it. He knew it, just as he knew that Dani was on his right and JT was on his left, just as he knew that killers would always exist but Malcolm would always have his team to help him catch the monsters.

It was simple logic.

And logically, Malcolm knew he didn’t want to die. He wanted the pain to stop, wanted the fear to end, but he didn’t want to  _ die _ , because life had so much more to offer. He was more than his job. He was more than the Whitlys. He was more than his father, and that man’s wretched blood. He was Malcolm  _ Bright _ , son of Gil Arroyo, friends of JT Tarmel and Dani Powell and Edrisa Tanaka and so many more. He had one loving mother, and one doting sister. And  _ God _ did he want to live for them, more than anyone else.

It was simple logic.


	5. Soft Landing

_ one. _

Gil rubbed his hands together, then scrubbed over his face, willing his exhaustion away as he leaned further over his desk and into the piles of paperwork. At his left, Malcolm hunched over himself from where he sat on the sofa, a file on his knees and a pen twirling in his hand.

How the kid had so much energy was beyond Gil.

His foot vibrated against the floor, tapping and tapping and tapping and his pen flipped over his fingers as he nibbled on his lip and scratched at the shell of his ear and moved and moved and  _ moved. _

And Gil was  _ so tired. _ Watching Malcolm fidget  _ exhausted _ him. He found himself staring at the kid, halfway between zoning out and passing out, and he came back to himself when his phone buzzed to life in his pocket. Gil jolted. Malcolm's head snapped up at the movement. Gil held his hand up, "Sorry, just--" He wrangled his phone free. "Don't mind me."

He spun in his chair and answered the call. "Hey, Dani. What's up?"

"The lead's cold, boss. Martell remarried. Hasn't seen her husband in years." Dani mumbled over the line. She sounded equally as tired as Gil felt. Overnight work had been easier in his younger years but, as retirement inched closer and his golden days slipped away, Gil felt weighted and heavier now more than ever before.

He needed sleep. They  _ all _ needed sleep.

Well, save for Malcolm, of course. The kid never slept.

Gil hummed, "All right. Thanks for checking. You and JT head home. Bright and I will finish checking things here."

"Night, Gil." Dani hung up before he could respond, her voice barely a whisper that rang in his ears. He blinked hard and spun around.

At first, he didn't notice. He folded over his desk once again, ready to slog through the motions of reading until his eyes burned, and then reading some more. But then he  _ heard _ , rather than  _ saw _ .

Malcolm was  _ asleep. _

Gil gawked at the ruffled sight of his kid tilted into the sofa, head against the back cushion, papers on his lap. It must have happened quickly, without him realizing it, because his pen was mid-flip, trapped between his pinky and ring as it made its rounds between his fingers. He made no sound, no snores. His chest rose and fell steadily, his eyelashes steady.

No nightmares. No terrible dreams.

Just sleep.

Gil deflated. He eased out of his chair - somehow it was obnoxiously squeaky without him realizing it after decades of use - and crossed the room, weaving between the table and the couch. He was careful to avoid knocking Malcolm's bony knees as he slid around him and to his coat rack.

His winter coat was no soft blanket, but he figured Malcolm could use as much sleep as he could get. Gil pulled it from the hooks and folded it over his arm, freeing his hands to pluck the papers from the kid's lap and drape the coat over him.

Malcolm hummed something in his sleep, but he didn't rouse, and Gil relaxed at the sight. His heart felt as heavy as his body, then, as he scooted his way back to his desk chair. What was an hour more if it meant Malcolm could sleep?

* * *

_ two. _

"Malcolm!" Gil rushed for the ambulance, jumping around officers and firefighters. "Malcolm? Hey!"

Malcolm glanced up from where he was sitting in the back of the ambulance, on the step. He held an oxygen mask to his grimy face, where the dark tar and soot scrubbed over his skin and shirt only accentuated the wild blue of his eyes. The kid raised his eyebrows to Gil as Gil slowed to a stop in front of him.

"Jesus, kid, what happened?" Gil panted, breathless from both the run and the call he had received earlier.

The officer hadn't said much, but Gil hadn't needed much to hear "fire" and "thirty-second street" and "Malcolm Bright" all mashed together in the same expository paragraph. Gil had rushed over as quickly as he could, running lights with his siren wailing overhead until he had reached the base of the smoldering building.

Malcolm was fine.  _ Everyone _ was fine. It had been an apartment complex where their supposed arsonist perp had been suspected of hiding. Gil figured that, in the least, they had been right.

In the worst case scenario, though, Malcolm had almost died.

_ Almost _ being the key word.

Malcolm took a deep breath from his mask, then lowered it to his lap. "'M fine…" he wheezed. "Just...hurts'a bit…"

"Put that back on." Gil snagged the mask from Malcolm's hand and eased it over his head, the straps securing it over his face. "Don't take it off until you can breathe, you hear me?"

Malcolm nodded half-heartedly, an amused yet unimpressed expression slackening his normally tense features. His hands shook against his thighs, black dusting his fingers, grey hiding the pristine white of his shirt. Gil scowled under his breath. "Damnit, Bright. What's with you and waiting for backup?" Malcolm moved for the mask. Gil snapped, "That was  _ rhetorical _ . Don't answer that."

He huffed, hands on his hips.

The shaking from Malcolm's hands crept up his arms, to his shoulders, his whole body vibrating. He scrubbed his fingerpads together, frowning down at the black dust that glued together and revealed sweaty, clammy skin underneath. His eyes leapt from Gil's to his hands, to Gil, to the building, then back to his hands and Gil licked his lips as he asked, "Bright? You good?"

Whatever he had said was muffled under the mask.

"Okay, kid, okay." Gil leaned over into the ambulance and pulled the charcoal-grey shock blanket from where it was left folded on the bench. He shook it out and tossed it over Malcolm's shoulders. With one hand clamped at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, and another rubbing small circles against his back, Gil reeled Malcolm in as he sat down next to him. "You're okay, kid. Just take it easy. I've got you."

* * *

_ three. _

"I'm  _ not _ sick. It's a  _ cold _ , Gil." Malcolm threw his arms out in a grand gesture, eyebrows high and eyes sharp with irritation.

Gil tapped his foot. "A 'cold' implies a bug, does it not?"

"Gil…" Malcolm rolled his eyes.

He repeated, "Does it not, Bright? Or did you fail basic biology?"

"This is ridiculous." The kid stomped past Gil, as if he were a toddler on a  _ mission _ . He swiped his suit jacket up off the back of the chair at the countertop and twisted around. Despite his scratchy throat and stuffy nose, Malcolm almost sounded believable when he spat, "I'm perfectly fine. Fine to work a case. Fine to profile. I don't need a babysitter."

"Last I checked, you're a grown-ups man." Gil mumbled.

Malcolm nodded. "I am, yes."

"Which will only make this more demeaning…" Gil said. Malcolm reared back defensively, but Gil snagged the back of his neck easily and guided him towards his bed. There was enough force to keep the kid going, but not enough to hurt, and Malcolm whined something as Gil maneuvered him up the step and to the mattress. "Lay down. Take some meds--"

"Can't." Malcolm huffed. He stripped off his jacket once again and tossed it to the foot of his bed. "Most medications react negatively to the SSRIs, so…" His fingers flew to his tie. "Besides. Even if I could, most cold and flu medications have diphenhydramine, which is an antihistamine that causes drowsiness and I don't like medication like that so I'm just…" He trailed off as he fiddled with the dark blue tie folded in his hands. "So..." Malcolm looked away, weakly clearing his raw throat with a wince. "Plus, the night terrors. They--...I can't..." His head dropped to his chest, a sigh punched out of him.

Gil frowned. Of course the kid couldn't take it easy. Not even when he was sick - albeit with the common cold - did he catch a break. It must have been exhausting, and oftentimes, Gil wondered how Malcolm did it.

After Jackie had died, even years later, up until only recently, Gil had searched for her after waking. Some mornings, he had woken and only had a fleeting curiosity before it was stifled by reality the moment his eyes had opened. Other times, after waking from a nightmare, Gil had slapped his hand down to her side, expecting her warmth, her smile to ease him back to sleep.

It left an ache in Gil's chest whenever he had to wake scared and alone.

To feel that way for  _ decades _ …

Had Jessica ever stayed with the kid after his nightmares? Ainsley was far too young, and maids and housekeepers were unlikely.

Was Malcolm always alone?

Gil glanced down at his kid as he played with the cuffs of his dress shirt, looking as if he were contemplating taking it off and  _ actually resting, _ or leaving it on to throw on his tie and jacket as soon as Gil left. Or, perhaps Gil was assuming, because Malcolm looked  _ exhausted. _ With pale skin and blue bags dragging his eyes down, the kid looked as if he were going to keel over at any moment.

Without thinking, Gil said, "Take the shirt off."

Malcolm stared up at him. "Wha--?"

He was cut off as Gil threw his lightweight comforter up and over his head. Malcolm sputtered and flailed weakly, but Gil stopped him with two hands flat on his shoulders. The blanket was covering his head, but Gil could practically  _ feel _ the glare through the fabric.

"Kid, you need sleep," Gil began. "And...I could use a break, too. So how about you call it a day, lie back, and get some rest? And I'll take the sofa. Nap for a bit." He squeezed Malcolm's shoulders. "Wake you up should you...get a bit  _ rowdy _ ."

Malcolm chuckled under the blanket. His hand flew out from the comforter and he pulled it enough for his head to pop out, hair spiked and frizzy. "Hope you brought ear plugs."

"I got headphones, yeah." Gil nodded.

"No, no, like...like  _ in the ear _ kind-of earphones. Or...plugs." Malcolm quirked his eyebrow at Gil's pinched confusion.

Gil said, "My headphones work just fine." 

"They're  _ ancient _ ." Malcolm huffed. "And if you think those'll block out  _ screaming  _ then, by all means, give it a shot, but--"

Gil pushed him backwards. Malcolm flopped on the mattress. Gil said, "Quit stalling and get some sleep, kid. I'll be just over here." He turned and headed for the sofa as he heard the blankets rustle and then settle. Settling on the soft sofa, Gil didn't bother to pull out his headphones but, rather, pulled out his phone to scroll through Twitter while he waited and let Malcolm rest.

* * *

_ four. _

Malcolm wiggled his head out from under the blanket, his eyes poking out from under the hem. "Is he here yet?"

Gil shushed him. He dragged the sheet higher and up over the kid's head. From where he stood at the head of the morgue table, Gil found he was able to not only shove Malcolm back underneath the blanket should he need to, but he saw every wriggle and every impatient writhe Malcolm made. Gil tapped his head. "Quit moving or we're found out before he even gets here."

"I mean," From the foot of the slab, Dani shrugged. "His jacket's like, right there," She pointed at Edrisa's chair. "And he'll notice Bright's gone."

"Aha," Malcolm held up a finger from underneath the sheet. "But this is the test of friendship. Will he  _ actually  _ notice my absence?"

Gil slapped his hand lightly. "Put that down."

The morgue doors swung open as Malcolm's hand disappeared under the white sheet. JT took one determined step, then a tentative one, before blurting out, "Where's Bright?"

"Busy." Dani said nonchalantly.

JT pursed his lips. "If he's not busy here, then where's he busy at?"

"Don't know." Gil clapped his hands together, forcing the grin from the corners of his lips. "Jessica needed him."

After a moment to digest, JT seemed content. He strode to the table where Malcolm lay covered and watched as Edrisa slunk out of her office, walking too thoughtfully, her poker face disgracefully slipping fast.

JT mumbled, "What's with you, girl?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing, I'm just...doing  _ m'thing, _ you know?" She swayed awkwardly, toying with the lapels of her lab coat. "Nothing. Like, nothing. It's not weird or anything, just...normal old me!"

From JT's right, Dani choked on a laugh, turning away to excuse herself as she coughed into her elbow to disguise it. Gil had to look down as a grin broke his facade momentarily.

JT said, "Okay, what's  _ really _ going--?"

Malcolm sprang upright. "Happy birthday!" Arms out and smile wide, Malcolm's fingers danced as he jazz hands-ed.

Dani and Gil broke into laughter, an intermittent "happy birthday" somewhere in there. Edrisa giggled.

"That  _ sucked. _ " JT chuckled.

Malcolm's face scrunched up. "It didn't...not  _ really. _ You didn't even know I was  _ here. _ "

"Dude," JT snickered. "I can't mistake your scrawny ass anywhere,  _ including _ under a sheet. Plus, jacket's over there," JT gestured to his coat. "And I could see you breathing under the sheet."

Malcolm nodded in a I'm-ready-to-debate-you disagreement. "Right,  _ but _ \--"

Gil hiked the blanket back over Malcolm's head. Malcolm snapped his mouth shut as Dani clapped JT on the back and said, "Happy birthday."

"Yes!" Malcolm, from under the sheet, shouted. "Happy birthday to...Jordan Tyler Tarmel!"

JT shook his head. "Swing and a miss."

* * *

_ five. _

Gil heard his name. It tugged him from his sleep, jolting him back into the dark, hollow cold of Malcolm's loft. Rain pelted the glass of the windows, lulling in waves as it came down in heavy sheets over the building.

His ears adjusted before his eyes could as he heard a sharp whimper and a crack of metal on metal, of leather being pulled taut.

_ Malcolm. _

Gil scrambled off the couch, his back aching and the crick in his neck protesting his every movement. Chasing down their murderer earlier had left him sore but able, while Malcolm had, of course, taken the brunt of the beating. Gil had managed to escape with a metal garbage can to his back and a hard slam to the alleyway ground, while Malcolm had slumped against the wall, blood brightening his shirt front as his fingers ghosted over the hilt of a knife.

He had survived with more stitches to add over Watkins', organs unharmed, body intact. They had still suggested someone stay with him should he pull the sutures.

Malcolm writhed on his bed, jerking at his restraints. In the low light, Gil could see the veins in his neck as he ground down into his mouthguard. He could see the sharp lines of his shoulders and arms as he fought the cuffs. He could see him kicking weakly as his legs tangled with the blanket. Sweat darkened the sheets. Malcolm's eyes darted under his lids.

Slowly, Gil lowered himself to the edge of the bed and caught Malcolm's flailing fists. "Bright."

The kid's head flipped sideways, craning away from Gil, from his voice.

Gil's stomach flopped. He struggled to hold Malcolm as he battled to free himself. "Bright, hey, Br--"

His knee rammed into Gil's spine. Gil hunched over himself, cursing, pulling himself closer to Malcolm to get more leverage. Gentleness be damned, the kid was going to hurt them both even more than they already were should he continue.

With a pained resolve, Gil pinned Malcolm's closest wrist to the bed, freeing his right one, and gripping Malcolm's cheeks tightly. "Malcolm,  _ wake up. _ "

And he did.

With a muffled cry, Malcolm jolted awake, shaking, trembling so hard it must have hurt, his eyes blown wide and buzzing with fear.

Gil nodded and slowed his breathing, releasing Malcolm's arm to opt for wiggling the mouthguard free. He set it on the nightstand and turned to his kid, his hand on the side of Malcolm's neck. "You with me?"

Malcolm croaked, "Yeah…"

"Yeah? Good." Gil leaned back a bit. "Good. Okay...a-are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself more?"

"I don't…" Malcolm moved to reach for his shirt, but the cuffs - tangled in the sheets - stopped him. He frantically pulled at them, seemingly forgetting about the emergency releases as he tugged and whined and sat upright to get better access before he swallowed a grimace. " _ Shit. _ I-I think I…" He gritted his teeth. Gil's hands moved quick, flitting up under the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt to see.

There was fresh blood spotting the bandage, but they were mere dots rather than gushing streams. Gil sighed. "I think you're good. The pain meds just wore off."

Malcolm nodded, chin dipping. Gil lowered his head back to the pillow. "Try to sleep some more, all right?" He untangled Malcolm's blanket and draped it over his chest. Before Malcolm's eyes could close, Gil slipped the mouthguard back between his teeth. Gil murmured, "I'm right here."

* * *

_ plus one. _

Malcolm shushed Dani loudly. It pulled him from where he was drifting in his office chair, and Gil nearly cracked his eyes open if not for Malcolm's hushed, "Please don't wake him up."

"Someone's going to see he's sleeping on the job." Dani chuckled, equally as quiet as Malcolm.

The kid must have made a face, because it took him a moment to huff a response. "Look, I've been...keeping him awake. Sort of. The past few nights, I've had  _ ideas _ about the girl in the box, and so I kept calling because I couldn't get it out of my  _ head _ \--"

"And Gil answered." Dani finished softly.

They stayed quiet for a long moment before Malcolm said, "Do--...Where's that blanket?"

"That...blanket?" Gil could practically hear her eyebrow going up.

"Yeah, yeah, the uh, the big one. It's green?" There was a rustling of fabric. Gil cracked an eye to see Malcolm's arms outstretched either direction, demonstrating the blanket's size with horrendous inaccuracy. The thing was  _ giant _ , at least six foot by six, and Malcolm just didn't have the height to compare.

Well, at least the kid was trying his best.

Gil closed the eye as Dani said, "Uh, not sure. I think it was in the conference room last I--"

"Can you get it?" Malcolm interrupted.

Dani quipped, "Can  _ you? _ "

There was a shuffle of papers, deliberate as if Malcolm were trying to quiet them, before he said, "Fine. Be right back."

The door to his office creaked open as ringing and muffled voices flooded in. For a moment, Gil wondered if Dani had left before she said, louder for him to hear over the clutter from outside, "You awake?"

"Maybe." Gil opened his eyes.

Dani hovered near the door, a smile on her face. "You'd think a  _ scary good _ profiler would be able to tell you're faking it."

Gil hummed. "Wasn't faking it five minutes ago." He blinked lazily, trying to peer past the blinds against his windows to see where Malcolm was. Scanning the halls, he eventually met Dani's amused smile. "Don't tell him?"

"Yes, sir." Dani chuckled.

Gil nodded and closed his eyes. A beat later and the door clicked shut, drowning out the hubbub outside. Malcolm whispered, "Found it!" He sounded giddy, like a kid.

Like  _ his _ kid. Always giddy. Always excitable. 

Dani said softly, "Oh, you did. I was just guessing. I didn't actually know it was in the conference room."

Malcolm's voice got closer as he explained, "Oh, it wasn't. I asked JT, and JT said to talk to Monroe, and Monroe said that Lewis had it last, so I asked Lewis and  _ she _ said that Paulson had it."

Gil waited for the big reveal.

He felt the blanket fall down over his shoulders, all the way to the floor and then more. Malcolm finished, "Paulson said McGee had it. And she did. In her desk. Apparently that's where we always keep it."

Of course. McGee somehow miraculously always had space to shove shit into her bottom drawer, seemingly void of paperwork and clutter. Gil had always found it odd.

"Let's go so he can sleep." Dani suggested. 

Malcolm shuffled more, his voice trailing further away. "Yeah, yeah, good plan. Actually, I have something to--"

The door clicked shut. Gil opened his eyes to his empty office, Malcolm and Dani walking in stride down the hallway towards the conference room. He smiled and settled further into his chair.

A nap sounded like a  _ really good  _ plan.


	6. Maker

Time dragged at an erratic pace, skipping Malcolm’s heart like a scratched record as it passed, tricking him, lying to him, telling him it had only been mere seconds, minutes, since his kidnapping. But he could feel the exhaustion whittling away at his strength. He could feel the hunger spasming his gut, the thirst burning his dry throat, the pain throbbing in time with his pulse down from where his bare feet had been burned by the cold, to where a headache molded into a rhythmic knife sawing into the base of his skull.

Malcolm’s vision waned, warping the stone floor and the concrete walls together in the shallow wash of orange light. His eyes followed the streams of light to where the cracks and corners devoured their warmth. From where he lay sprawled across the ground, a burning chill seeped through the basement flooring, cauterizing his heavy limbs to the stone, his head lolling, sluggishly blinking. He adjusted, shifting, feeling the pull at the gash in his side from where his blood glued his dress shirt to his ribs. His breath whistled past his gritted teeth.

Tremors vibrated through him, buzzing through his tight muscles. Whether it was a nutrient deficiency-caused physiological spasming, or a semi-hypothermic reaction, Malcolm wasn’t sure. His mind jogged paces behind him, forgetting where he was, how he got there, ripping him from night terrors that leave him disoriented and more exhausted than before he had passed out. More often than not, Malcolm would move to sit up only to unceremoniously flop back to the ground, forgetting his hands were shackled, his wrists knit together by a chain looped through a metal U-shaped hook drilled to the floor. He had enough room to prop himself on his elbows, if need be, and that was it.

Malcolm zoned out, staring ahead at the wall.

Initially, upon waking, he had been too panicked to think, to breathe. He had screamed his voice raw until it cracked, had tugged at his manacles until his wrists purpled and bled. But the fear subsided, and reality had kicked adrenaline through his veins. Malcolm had calmed and had began to try freeing himself from John Watkins’ grasp.

_ Had  _ tried.

Perhaps the five stages of grief worked with kidnapping as well. Perhaps he was mourning his own death. The denial had been relatively clear, oozing into a fiery anger mid-panic. Bargaining and depression had been short-lived and had left him curled around himself, pleading silently for Gil, for Dani, for  _ someone _ to find him. Malcolm figured, by now, he had been floating in a haze of acceptance for hours. Maybe days. His heart said months, said  _ years _ , said he couldn’t remember what the sky looked like, what fresh air smelled like. But logic reminded him that he had only been brought water three times, and food had yet to be delivered, and the average man needed water within seventy-two hours, and food within three weeks...

His stomach squeezed. Malcolm gasped. His insides wrenched. He whined low in his throat, breathing around the clenches of pain that punched the air out of his lungs.

He should have never listened to Shannon. He should have called Gil first, should have stepped back, waited, thought about his actions for  _ once _ in his life.

Shannon…

Shannon was dead.

At least Malcolm was still  _ alive _ .

But Shannon was spared. His death was relatively quick and hopefully painless to an extent, stripping his body of life before Watkins had time to torture him, to destroy his psyche and obliterate him with cuts and stabs and bruises and beatings.

_ God _ , how Malcolm wished he was spared, too.

He waited for Watkins to hit him too hard, to crack his skull against the stone, to cut him too deep, to hit him too hard and at too wrong an angle to just  _ kill  _ him. Ainsley would grieve. His mother would drink. Gil would be broken…

He would  _ break _ the man that has always given to him, never took. The one man who had been a father to him, a  _ dad _ , would shatter. He would be held together through copious cases and sleepless nights and Malcolm couldn’t do that to him. He  _ wouldn’t _ . Not to Gil. Not to someone who was a father to him.

His father...

Martin, the mystery shrouded in murkier mystery...what would he do? Murder Watkins? Praise him? Stay away? Break free? Pull strings? Would he orchestrate Ainsley’s capture and murder? Their mother’s? Had he orchestrated  _ Malcolm’s  _ capture?

Malcolm groaned. A headache stretched over the curve of his skull, digging its fingernails into his eye sockets, the light blinding him, the stench of copper-tanged blood sickening him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Enveloped by the darkness, Malcolm found himself relaxing. He breathed through his mouth, avoiding the gruesome smells, his body long since going numb. He settled into the cold,  _ gave in  _ to it, smoothing the tension in his shoulders, slowing his breaths, listening to the thrum of his heart.

It was a rhythmic rushing, not too dissimilar from the lull of ocean. His hands retreated to his chest, curling just below the hollow of his throat, snug against his sternum. He threaded his fingers around his wrists, underneath the metal, feeling for the hum in his veins, the serenity in his blood.

He was still alive...

His pulse steadied, the silence softly submerging him in the darkness, in the nothingness offered by unconsciousness. Malcolm went willingly, not bothering to take a breath as waves of blackness washed over him and dragged him under.

Deeper.

Quieter.

Where nothing lived.

Where darkness flourished.

A breath.

A beat.

Something nudged him weakly.

A breath.

A beat.

Another push, hard. Harder, again.

A breath.

A beat.

His shoulder forcibly wrenched sideways and Malcolm snapped to, gasping, eyes wide, blinded by the floodlights. He jerked back, cuffs snagging him, holding him in place as he squinted up. The floor eased into view, spattered red and brown and black, and the walls soon followed suit. He glanced down the length of his arms, to the crooks of his elbows, to where his wrists were chained to the ground, his fingers caked with grime and blood. His eyes focused, with difficulty, on the thick leather black boots at his head.

Malcolm’s heart split. One half lodged in his throat. The other dropped into his gut.

“Good morning, little Malcolm.” Watkins pulled at his jeans as he squatted down in front of Malcolm, his porcelain-stiff eyes coming into view. “You’ve been unconscious for almost an hour. Feeling ready to repent?”

Instinct had Malcolm licking his cracked lips. Had him begging for water, for food, for  _ anything _ . He kept his mouth shut.

Watkins shrugged. “Is that a no?” He leaned in. “I would have thought a brain like yours--” He tapped Malcolm’s temple. “--would have got it by now. It  _ has _ been almost two days, after all. Getting sick of it? Repent, and we can be done.”

But Malcolm had stopped listening. He had fell off himself as he drowned in his thoughts.

Two days.

Forty-eight hours.

Two-thousand, eight-hundred-eighty minutes.

When Malcolm put it in that scale, it seemed more justified. It soothed his buzzing mind, his panic, because it had only been  _ two days _ . Two days of relentless beating, of  _ torture _ , of cutting him and bruising him and breaking him. Breaking his bones, his heart, his goddamn  _ will to live. _

“I…” Malcolm whispered.

Watkins raised a brow. “You?” He leaned in closer, a smile curling the corner of his lips. Something in the man’s eyes warmed over, heating up like a fire in the cold, melting his icy persona, bringing forth excitement. He waited for Malcolm,  _ wanted _ Malcolm to give.

Malcolm wouldn’t give Watkins the satisfaction.

He coughed out, “I... _ want food. _ ” He glared up at his captor as casually as possible, dragging himself up on one elbow despite his muscles burning and shaking. “Maybe...a good filet mignon. I’ve got...an expensive palate. R-Rich kids...you know?” At Watkins’ scrunched expression, Malcolm pushed. “M-Maybe a red wine...to go with? Cheval Blanc, Chateau Margaux, I-I’ll even settle for a nice bottle...bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.” His laugh broke into a wheeze, sounding either hysterial or elated, but both Malcolm could work with as Watkins lip curled and he looked away, up, anywhere but at him.

Watkins would torture him. He would beat Malcolm again with his bruised fists, knuckles raw from where they scraped at Malcolm’s skin and teeth. He would kick Malcolm in the ribs, the stomach, the face, until he was sweating and reeling back. He would lean down and strangle Malcolm, his thick fingers wrapping around the base of his throat, pressing in hard, shaking from exertion.

But Malcolm would live.

He would continue living.

And Gil would find him. Gil, and Dani, and JT. They would find him.

They  _ had _ to. 

Until then, Malcolm would endure.

Shannon had no idea how lucky he was.

Sighing, Watkins mumbled, “You know, you’ve got no respect. Never did.” At Malcolm’s silence, he continued, “You never did know when to listen. When to obey orders...” He leaned back. His mask slipped on, face rigid with rage. “When to shut your mouth.”

“What can I say?” Malcolm grinned weakly up at him. “I’m a pretty outgoing person. Part of the lifestyle. Parties. Fundraisers. That kind...kind of stuff. You know?”

After a beat, Watkins hummed. He licked his teeth. “Sure, sure.” His eyes locked with Malcolm’s. They stared, fixed on one another, gazes locked like magnets. Watkin’s grin had long since fell, replaced with a curled lip. Malcolm smiled a little wider. “Sure, little Malcolm.”

Watkins’ arm jerked, a blur of color. His face twisted with fury as he punched a wide-bladed hunting knife through Malcolm’s right hand.

Malcolm’s mind went white. A scream ripped up his throat as he wrenched backwards instinctively, his thoughts flicking off and fear flipping on. Searing agony pulsed through his wrist, up his arm, the electric-sharp sensation spasming the muscles of his shoulder as he gaped down at the knife, listening to the tip of the blade clinking against the stone underneath his palm. Blood gurgled past, alarmingly bright, the wound already dark and jaggedly frayed at the edges. His hand twitched. Tears made his vision wave.

“Holy shit,  _ holy shit-- _ ” A tendon in his finger convulsed. Malcolm choked on air, coughing up tears and spit as he wailed, shaking, body seizing from the pain. “Shit shit  _ shit _ holy  _ shit _ .” He grabbed his trembling wrist, trying to relax, to gulp air instead of the stench of blood. He gagged.

Watkins leaned in. Malcolm yanked back. The knife jostled deeper, further, blackish-red spitting up from the wound and he swallowed another cry.

“There you go,” Watkins cooed, expressionless. “Now you’re quiet.”


	7. Slice

**_CHAPTER ONE_ **

“It’s not that serious.”

A lie. Malcolm knew it was serious. He knew it the moment he dragged himself from under the waves of yet another nightmare, shaking, sweating, crying, on the verge of vomiting as his father’s words sunk into his muscles, his bones, his very being. It was a lie that curdled in Malcolm’s mouth but dribbled out anyway, a twist of guilt building low in his heart as Gil glanced down at him, possibly contemplating Malcolm’s words, possibly glaring, deadset on ignoring him.

They stood tense in front of the security doors, where thick bars split between the more mentally stable inmates, and the less. The door clicked and a buzzer sounded, and Gil rushed forward, the gate nearly closing in front of Malcolm if not for his fingers sliding through the opening. Malcolm chased after him down the cold prison halls, breaths clipped as he worked to keep up with Gil’s long-legged fast-paced stride. “Gil.  _ Gil. _ ” Their footsteps ghosted across the tile floors. “Gil, come  _ on _ ,” Malcolm nearly choked on his lie, “It’s not that serious, Gil!” His hand snagged a fold in Gil’s coat.

He rolled Malcolm’s hand off his arm. “He  _ threatened _ you, Bright. I can’t let that slide.” Gil paused at the first heavy security door to Martin Whitly’s secure cell. Gil slammed his hand against the metal, hailing David, then turned to Malcolm. “You’re under NYPD protection. Under  _ my  _ protection. As  _ my _ consultant. It’s my responsibility Malcolm and, therefore, it  _ is _ serious.”

Malcolm’s hands buzzed. He folded them under his arms. “It’s  _ fine _ , Gil. Really.”

“Kidnap isn’t what I’d call ‘fine’.” Gil spat. He craned his neck to peer through the pathetically small window in the door. “So just let me do my job.”

Breathing out loudly, Malcolm said, “I said it’s fine, Gil. I can take care of myself.” He shrugged, wracking his brain for a reason, for a logical turn, for  _ another lie. _ “Besides, if you do that, and go in there and rough him up, he may never speak to me again. Do you really want to risk that?”

  
  


Gil scoffed. “I doubt that’d happen, Bright.” He continued to stare ahead through the glass.

“Look,” Malcolm shuffled closer. He gestured to the cell, eyebrows high. “Nobody  _ makes _ me come here. I do it on my own. And we need him.” He wedged himself into Gil’s field of vision, halfway squished between the door and Gil. “Gil, my dad… _ The Surgeon _ \--” Malcolm glanced over his shoulder, through the window, where David was preparing Martin’s cuffs. “He’s all empty threats…”

Another lie.

They rolled off his tongue like water rolled off of skin.

Gil glared down at Malcolm. He raised his chin. “You sleeping?”

Malcolm blinked. He fumbled, “I--Well, I don’t...normally sleep anyways, but, uh…”

“Nightmares?” Gil pushed. “About Martin? About what he said…” It wasn’t a question. Gil knew. Malcolm  _ knew _ Gil knew, because how could he not? The black bruise-like bags under his eyes, the sallow-white skin, the tremors that weren’t from the fear, nor the cold, but from utter  _ exhaustion _ . Of course Gil knew. Anyone would.

Malcolm’s heart throbbed on his tongue. “I have nightmares a lot, Gil.” He clucked his tongue. “It’s kind of my thing.” A laugh died before it could breach his lips. He frowned instead, turning away.

“You’re not sleeping,” Gil rubbed his nose. “And you’re not eating. Don’t think I don’t see it when you just push your food around. You’re not that sly.” Malcolm’s ears burned. Gil had watched him shove his Chinese takeout around with his grease-soaked chopsticks. He had watched him fiddle with the Chick-Fil-A from two days ago, watched him play with his food like he was a child and not a grown-ass man who couldn’t eat because his stomach was writhing with unbridled anxiety that threatened to come out,  _ literally  _ as vomit, if he even  _ tried  _ to eat.

Gil continued, “And that’s effecting your performance. This needs to be resolved. Today.”

Malcolm’s voice broke as he whispered, “I’m  _ fine _ \--”

“Kid. I swear to God if you tell me you’re ‘fine’ one more time I’m taking you to the hospital and having them knock you out cold.” Gil clenched his jaw. “You hear me?”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“They  _ do _ have sedatives so powerful you don’t dream. You know that, right?” Gil’s lips quirked at the corners. His eyes lightened briefly, the strain and seriousness slipping away for a brief reprieve and Malcolm breathed into it with a light laugh.

He said, “Unfortunately, those aren’t OTCs.”

“Ask your mother,” Gil turned back to the window, truly smiling. “I’m sure she’s got them stashed away somewhere.” David had finished chaining Martin to the wall, wrists locked tight and tether pulled taut as he stared down the hallway at them.

Malcolm couldn’t help but look back.

Even that felt like giving in to his father, giving himself  _ away _ . He felt exposed, trapped inside his mind, his body left unattended for Martin to take.

_ We’ll go home, my boy. _

Malcolm breaths caught.

_ I’ll get out of here. _

He blinked fast.

_ I’ll come get you. _

Sweat dampened his shirt collar.

_ Just the two of us. _

He wheezed.

_ My dear Malcolm. _

“Bright?”

Malcolm gasped. He stared up into Gil’s eyes, the man’s hands firm on both his slight shoulders as Malcolm quaked on the spot, struggling to take a full breath as adrenaline kicked him into fight-flight-freeze and stole his air, his rational thought, spurring him into a hyperventilated panic.

He must have looked relatively calm, as Gil’s hand carefully slid to the juncture between Malcolm’s neck and shoulder, his thumb kneading into the pull of muscle above his collar bone. His brow pinched tight as he asked, “You all right, kid?”

Was he?

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t.

“I’m okay.”

_ We’ll go home… _

_...two of us. _

“I’m good.” He brought his hands up to reassure Gil, to calm his nerves and push him away, but they came back shaking, tremors working up his wrists and underneath his suit. He stared down at them, startled himself, before his eyes snapped to Gil’s widened ones and he slapped his arms to his sides. “I’m okay. I’m just…” He sucked in a breath. It didn’t quite come. “I just need sleep.”

“Kid, I--”

The door buzzed open. David held it open for them. Gil scanned Malcolm over once more before ducking into the short hall. Malcolm swallowed tight. Panic swelled under his sternum like a balloon. He shook his hands out and stepped inside.

The door slammed shut.

Malcolm tensed.

Martin smiled over at him, waving from his waist at where his wrists were cuffed together. He cocked his head to the side, like a curious animal, before his lips split into an even wider grin, all tooth, no authenticity.

_ I’ll get out of here. _

_ I’ll come get you. _

Malcolm reeled back. The world went white, oversaturated with anxiety as his vision tunneled and glowed and his ears popped, everything too loud and muffled alike. His back hit the secondary security door, fingers splayed wide. 

_ Just the two of us. _

_ We’ll go home, my boy. _

Home to Ainsley, and his mother. Home to where his family sat, unsuspecting,  _ safe _ from him, from The Surgeon. Home to the one place he truly felt safe, as home was his sister, and his mother, and  _ not _ Martin.

_ Just the two of us. _

His father’s words trapped him. His fingers curled around Malcolm’s neck as he wheezed and gasped, unable to breathe, to think. The brain needed oxygen in order to function properly. Malcolm knew this. But he couldn’t get air. It dried in his mouth. It stopped at his lips. It froze in his throat. He couldn’t breathe and something was  _ horribly  _ wrong because why couldn’t he  _ breathe? _

Strong hands pried him off the wall.

Malcolm flopped in their hold, breathless, unable to speak, to truly move, helpless to them, to  _ him _ , to his  _ father _ .

Warm arms snaked around his back, behind his shoulders, and Malcolm was enveloped in heat and soft fabric and smooth scents of fabric softener and sharp cologne and  _ Gil. _

“It’s okay, kid. Just breathe.”

Malcolm jerked, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly  _ aware _ of what happened, what was happening, embarrassment burning his face. Gil held him tighter. “Relax. Just breathe.” He rubbed his hand between Malcolm’s shoulder blades. “Just keep breathing. In, and out.”

Malcolm stiffened.

Hugs weren’t his thing.

They weren’t Gil’s, either.

Neither of the men were very touchy-feely, and both preferred distance and calculated trust over closeness and blind vulnerability towards one another. They each had their walls, both equally as high, but Malcolm needed his barriers, and Gil was reluctant to break his down. They were comfortable from where they stood.

Hugs - true,  _ genuine _ hugs - felt odd.

To be held when his mother chose the hold of a wine glass to her chest over her own children, or to be held when Ainsley instead drifted to further places and newer worlds that offered her stories, shook Malcolm.

It didn’t necessarily feel wrong.

But it felt new.

And new was uncomfortable.

Right?

“Malcolm, you need to  _ breathe _ , kiddo.” Gil’s hot breath hit his ear, his laugh deep in his chest, thrumming through them. “This isn’t going to go well if you pass out on me.” Malcolm couldn’t see Martin from around Gil’s body. He couldn’t see much of anything. So instead, he closed his eyes.

Malcolm breathed in.

“That’s it…”

_ We’ll go home… _

He breathed out.

“Good.”

_ I’ll get out of here… _

And in.

“Good, Malcolm.”

_ I’ll come get you… _

And out.

“Keep breathing.”

_ Just the two of us… _

“It’s just us, Malcolm.” Gil’s hand wrapped around the base of his neck, warmth pulsing through his body from the strong, yet simple contact. His nerves loosened. “Just us two. You’re all right.”

“I’m all right…” Malcolm breathed out. He peeled his eyes open, his cheek still smushed into the woven fabric of Gil’s overcoat. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” Gil reared back a bit, holding Malcolm by his upper arms, expression unreadable yet soft. He leaned down and in to see Malcolm closely, eyes searching for a lie, for a coverup that Malcolm knew he couldn’t hide from Gil. He couldn’t hide much from him at all, it seemed. “Are you sure?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“All right.” Gil dropped his hands. He turned back around, facing the opened cell door of Martin Whitly. “Then let’s talk to The Surgeon.”

Malcolm blinked up at his father.

Martin gawked with parted lips and a stiff frame. He looked at ease, but the veins of his neck pushed against his thin skin, his eyes glazed over with unmasked distain. As Gil approached the cell door, Martin left, slipping into the shadows of his room and disappearing from Malcolm’s line of view.

“Mister David,” Gil’s voice was hushed. “May we have the room…?” His voice trailed off into a shushed conversation that Malcolm tuned out, instead electing to focus on his father.

Martin hunched over his desk, his hands still bound, the tether to the wall pulled tight as Martin huddled over a book laid flat on the hardwood. His hands fiddled with something underneath the hardcover front, his knuckles dipping and rolling, his fingers flexing, the bones in his hand rippling with the muscle as he seemingly twisted something between his pointer and middle.

Something was different.

Perhaps it was the color of his father’s cardigan, or the color of the room.

Perhaps it was the disheveled books on the bookshelf, left out of order, in complete disarray.

Perhaps it was the strip of wood that was peeled off his father’s desk, the area since sanded down.

Or perhaps it was Gil’s presence. And Martin’s lack thereof. Gil stood tall, back straight and hands folded in front of him as he called out, from across the hollow room, “Martin Whitly. We need to talk.”

Martin made no move to acknowledge them. Gil continued, nonchalant, “This visit is regarding a threat towards NYPD consultant Malcolm Bright--”

“My son.” Martin mumbled.

Malcolm stiffened.

Gil growled out, “Yes, Martin. Your son. Malcolm Bright.” He stepped closer. “You have threatened him, hence placing the life of an official NYPD consultant--”

“He’s my son.” Martin twisted around in his chair. His cheeks shook with rage, face bright red. “He’s mine.”

“Yes, and  _ your son _ is under NYPD jurisdiction and protection, and therefore  _ I  _ can have  _ you  _ placed in a twenty-four hour--”

Martin snarled, “Shut your  _ mouth _ , Arroyo.”

David stepped forward. “Calm down, Martin.”

“Doctor Whitly, this is an official--”

“He’s my son! I am his father!” Martin snapped to his feet. David’s hand dropped to his taser. “He’s mine, Arroyo. Not yours. I won’t be lectured by you because Malcolm is  _ mine. _ ”

Malcolm dipped underwater.

He couldn’t feel his pulse. It moved too fast, sounded too loud, felt too heavy in his veins.

He couldn’t move. His feet were glued to the ground, drilled through his muscle and bone and bound to the tile.

He couldn’t breathe. Martin’s fingers were wrapped around his esophagus, choking him, squeezing the silence out of him as a whimper ripped up his throat and his hands began to shake, shake harder than ever before, everything going white and black and becoming all too much in a sensory deprivation tank.

“Malcolm.”

Malcolm wheezed. He choked on his spit, doubling over, coughing.

It hurt. It  _ fucking _ hurt as fear coiled around his organs, constricting tight with ropes of steel digging into his vessels, his lungs, his stomach, his gut, his heart, killing him slowly as he curled around himself.

“ _ Malcolm. _ ”

He grabbed onto the first thing he could, the first person he saw. Gil. Gil, separating him from Martin as Martin howled and screamed and shook in his restraints, David holding him back with a raised hand and a threatening finger on his taser’s trigger.

“Hey, kid.” Gil tapped his chin. He locked eyes with Gil. “There you are. Let’s get out of here.” Gil smiled warmly, blocking out the cold pang of dread that built inside of him. Malcolm nodded vigorously and Gil grabbed his arm, guiding him out of the cell door. “I’m sorry, Bright. I shouldn’t have let you come with me. That’s on me.”

Martin wailed behind them.

Malcolm didn’t trust his voice to work. He used it anyway. “‘M fine.” His voice cracked.

“You always are, Bright.” Gil slung an arm across Malcolm’s shoulders. “But it’s okay if you’re not.” He guided Malcolm through the door.

Martin screeched louder.

David said, “We’re done here.”

The click of Martin’s handcuffs reverberated in Malcolm’s mind. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I know.” he mumbled. Everything inside him was numb. “I’m...working on it.”

“Okay.” Gil lightly patted his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Martin howled.

Something snapped.

Metal clanked to the ground.

Malcolm twisted around in time to see Martin throwing himself forward, tackling them to the ground. Martin hit Gil and Malcolm hit the floor, the three of them skidding across the smooth tile in a heap of wrestling limbs and flailing and kicking, snarls and snaps and screams Malcolm couldn’t decipher swallowing the silence of the hall. Someone grabbed his wrist. A foot nudged his. He squirmed in the pile, choking on a cry. A knee hit his ribs. An elbow railed into his side, throwing him sideways and into the wall, away from the flurry.

Gil flip-flopped Martin, rolling him onto his back. Martin’s hands were free, the cuffs hanging off one wrist as his hands slammed under Gil’s chin, squeezing with whitened knuckles.

Malcolm looked up to David.

David, who was face down on the ground. David, with a puddle of blood pulsing out of a deep gash ripped up his back, staining his uniform cherry bright. David, who had his taser cradled in his limp hand.

Malcolm lunged for it.

He slid on his knees, yanking the single-shot gun from David’s cold fingers and he whipped around, shoulders locked, arms loose, the taser raised high.

His eyes locked with Martin’s. Martin had heaved himself off the floor, Gil fast to his chest, one arm bracketed across Gil’s front, his free hand pushing a sharpened end of a strip of wood to Gil’s jugular.

A cold settled in Malcolm. Something colder than the tile under his knees. Something colder than the sweat rolling down his spine. It was a cold dread. A pure understanding.

Malcolm had Martin, but Martin had Gil.

And a taser gun with horrendous accuracy couldn’t beat a prison shiv directly to the jugular.

“Dad,” Malcolm breathed shakily. “Let Gil go.”

Martin hummed. He pulled Gil closer. Gil flinched, tensing, hissing something under his breath as his lip curled and eyes darted to find an escape. “My boy,” Martin shrugged. “They teach you many things in a place like this. Cooperation. Understanding. Listening to your peers, yes. But they also teach you how to kill a man with the most obscure of items.” He laughed, chuckle breaking into a wheeze.

Malcolm’s mouth was dry. Dry from the cold. The dread. “That’s from your desk…” He gestured to the shiv. “Isn’t it?”

“I was planning on using it on this poor sap down the hall. He really doesn’t know how to shut his mouth.” Martin curled further around Gil. He slid the sharpened end further into Gil’s neck, deeper, forcing a stark line of red from the pressure. Gil winced at the new wound. “But then lieutenant Arroyo, here…” Martin snarled, voice monotonous and cold. Cold like the dread beginning to weigh on Malcolm’s shoulders, his arms shaking, eyes watering. “He just  _ had _ to...to take you away from me.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to respond.

Martin interrupted, “Can’t you see it, my boy. He wants to separate us! He wants to divide us!” He pushed the blade further. Gil groaned frustratedly. “He’s trying to take you away from me, but your  _ my  _ boy. My son.”

“I am…” Malcolm whispered. He licked his lips. “And I’ll go with you. Wherever you want. Just...let Gil go.” Martin shook his head, and Malcolm pleaded, “ _ Dad _ . I’ll do  _ anything _ . Please...just don’t do this. You don’t need to do this.”

Gil squirmed. Martin held him tight. He said, “No, I think I do. Gil will follow us.”

“I won’t let him.” Malcolm’s eyes jumped to Gil’s. Everything about Gil screamed for Malcolm to stop, to shut his mouth, to run.. But Gil’s eyes softened, with resignation perhaps, and he raised his chin a little higher.

Perhaps he realized what Malcolm had realized: there was only one exit to the cell, and Martin was blocking the way. Malcolm couldn’t see any other way around it. Hostage negotiation was never his specialty per se, but he was willing to make  _ himself _ the hostage if it meant saving Gil.

Gil’s jaw tightened.

Malcolm tensed. “I’ll go with you, dad. Willingly.” He began to lower the taser.

Martin shuffled behind Gil. “Good, my boy. That’s good.”

“Malcolm,” Gil’s eyes widened. “Malcolm.  _ Shoot him! _ ”

He slammed his head back. His skull snapped against Martin’s nose and Martin jerked backwards, ripping the shiv across Gil’s neck. Gil dropped forward as Martin reeled back, stunned enough that Malcolm had time to raise the gun and fire the prongs into the meat of Martin’s torso. Stabs of electricity worked through his father, contorting his body as he flopped, rolling with the waves, jerking even with his eyes closed and limbs slack.

Malcolm stiffened.

Silence dropped over the hallway hard.

He couldn’t move.

_ Gil. _

He screamed for Gil, distantly registering the taser clattering to the ground as it slipped from his fingers, and within a beat, a shaking breath, he was knelt at Gil’s side, rolling him over, clamping his hands down over the pulsing wound, blood painting every surface - clothes, floor, hands, fingers - and Malcolm sobbed, choking.

Gil’s eyes peeled open, finding Malcolm’s in a haze.

“M’lc...m…”

Malcolm screamed out, “ _ Security! _ Somebody! Help!” He looked up, hair in his eyes, lashes glued together by his tears. “ _ Somebody! _ ”

“Mal…”

Cold fingers brushed the underside of his jaw. Malcolm’s head snapped down as he jerked back, gasping, on the verge of hyperventilating for the third time in less than half an hour but he couldn’t  _ breathe _ because Gil was--

“Br’the…” Gil murmured. His face had gone from pale to pallid, a sickly grey washing out his cheeks. “J’st... _ breathe… _ ”

Malcolm shook his head. “Gil, I--Just stay with me. Please just-- _ shit _ .” He swallowed around a whimper. “Please Gil please don’t die  _ please _ \--”

Gil coughed. Blood spit up into Malcolm’s face. His mouth snapped shut as he flinched back, shaking so hard he doubted he was doing anything to staunch the bleeding.

His stomach twisted. Malcolm gagged on a scream. His eyes flew open to Gil’s fluttering ones.

Footsteps echoed down the halls.

“...Gil?”

Gil’s eyes rolled up. He went entirely slack.

The security door shrieked open.

“ _ Gil! _ ”

Hands pried Malcolm back, away, his screams unleashed as he wailed, fighting, his voice raw as he reeled away from the people pulling him back. “ _ Gil!  _ Oh God.  _ Shit! _ Let me  _ go _ please God,  _ Gil! _ ”

“Calm down.” A deep voice pulled Malcolm back against his torso, huge arms holding his smaller ones still. Malcolm thrashed, kicking out. The man said, “Calm down, Malcolm. Calm down.”

Malcolm opened his eyes.

When had he closed them?

Dani crouched in front of him, her eyes wide but her expression steady as she said, “There you go. You okay?”

Behind him, tucked tight against his chest, JT said, “You good now, man?”

“What…?” Malcolm’s words cracked. “Wha--Where’s Gil?”

“An ambulance.” Dani said. She inched a little closer, getting onto her knees between Malcolm’s legs. “Are you okay?”

Malcolm whispered, “When…?”

“A few seconds ago.” She winced. “You don’t remember that?”

“Remember what?” Malcolm glanced over her shoulders, to the puddle of blackish blood on the ground. His stomach wrenched. “What happened?”

JT snickered, “You socked an EMT.”

“I  _ what? _ ”

“Right in the jaw.” JT finished. “Good right hook.”

“You were here for ten minutes. Alone.” Dani frowned. “You...don’t remember that?”

Malcolm wracked his brain. He fought for answers, for something to see but his mind was blank, blackened and quiet, a dull hum of exhaustion dragging him into spiraling silence. “I...I don’t--”

“You saved his life, man.” JT patted Malcolm’s chest, above his heart, where he still held Malcolm’s arms tight. “If it wasn’t for you, Gil would’ve bled out, man. You saved him.”

Malcolm went taut. “My dad--!”

“Is in solitary. Right now.” Dani held her hand up. She looked behind him, to JT, and offered her hand. “Come here. Let’s get you washed up. We can meet Gil at the hospital. All right?”

JT released his hold on Malcolm, and Malcolm sagged without the support, nearly falling over if not for Dani’s hands on his shoulders. He blearily blinked up at her, and nodded, firmly, dropping his bright red hands into her warm brown ones.

On three, she and JT hauled Malcolm to his feet. He nearly slipped in the puddle of blood.

* * *

**_CHAPTER TWO_ **

_ We’ll go home, my boy. _

_ Br’the… _

_ Just the two of us. _

_ J’st...breathe… _

Malcolm sucked in a gasp.

The bowl of the sink was stained a sharp red, the bright beads of blood rolling down the sides as the water flushed a soft, tangy pink. Malcolm’s pale hands stood in contrast, a white to match the bleached marble, a shock between blood and skin. They trembled under the heavy spray, tainted with Gil’s blood.

_ Gil’s blood. _

_ We’re the same. _

Malcolm couldn’t look up. He couldn’t look at himself. Instead, his neck strained down, chin locked to his chest as he scrubbed his fingers, scraping into the flesh above his knuckles, kneading into his palms, at his wrists, enough to burn, to hurt. It needed to hurt. Hurting meant it was real and Malcolm wasn’t sure what had happened, had actually  _ just happened. _

It didn’t feel real...

He dug under his fingernails, scooping out the gummy blobs of blood. Malcolm’s teeth ground hard. His legs shook, shoulders tight as he swallowed around a sob that throbbed halfway up his throat, stuck between a scream building in his lungs, and the tears threatening to fall.

None of it felt real.

It reminded him of dissociation, where his mind would peel away from his body, leaving a husk of numbness behind. What had happened only an hour prior to _ Gil _ ...

...numb.

He was numb.

And yet...

Malcolm scrubbed harder. Everything ached up to his elbows. The water continued to bleed, to ooze out from his fingertips. A strangled sound ripped up Malcolm’s windpipe, a broken shriek that hurt to cough up.

JT was just outside. Could he hear Malcolm losing it? Could he hear him trying not to fall apart alone in a hospital bathroom? Could he hear the tap running for an immeasurable amount of time? Would he see the soap dispenser spitting out the last spurts of foam for him, for his shaking hands, his disgusting fingers, his tainted skin? Would he see the water splashed across the marble, on the tile, his dress shirt stained from where he had tried to rinse the blood away?

“Jesus  _ Christ-- _ ” Malcolm gagged. The blood was still on his sleeves. His cuffs were dyed red. He curled around himself, head hanging over the sink as he coughed spit. He scratched at the red rubbed into the fibers as a pathetic wail shook his entire frame.

There was blood everywhere. Everywhere he looked. Countertops. Sink bowl. Floors. Walls. Shirt. Pants. Shoes. Hands. Gil’s blood was still on his hands…

_ We’re the same. _

There was  _ always  _ blood on Malcolm’s hands.

_ Just the two of us. _

Whether his own, or his father’s victims’, or someone he loved, there was always fucking  _ blood _ on his hands that he couldn’t wash away no matter how hard he washed and scraped and struggled and screamed for it to just  _ go away _ .

His chest tightened. Malcolm wheezed, suffocating in his desperation as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed  _ and scrubbed _ at the blood that flooded out from his fingertips, oozing from his palms and Malcolm choked out, “No, no,  _ holyshit.... _ ”

Blood overflowed from within his hands, as if there were a direct line from his veins to his fingertips. It gushed out of every crease in his skin, every fold of his palms, every scar and every scab and every fresh new wound he scraped into himself and Malcolm cried out as he brain stalled and he watched the blood pour and pour and  _ pour-- _

“Bright! Hey!” JT’s solid hands wrapped around his wrists. “Hey! Come on, man! You’re hurting yourself--!”

“Let me go!” Malcolm writhed in his hold, reaching for the water. “I need to wash it off!”

JT wrangled Malcolm against his chest, holding him fast. “Dude, you’re bleeding!  _ Stop! _ ”

Malcolm stiffened.

He was bleeding…?

Glancing down, his hands were raw. Free of the fountains of blood, replaced with his very clean, very bright, angry hands. Malcolm gaped down at them. He  _ was  _ bleeding. Small spots dotted the backs, the middles between his fingers from where he scratched too hard, scrubbed too much. 

JT turned the water off. He straightened out as Malcolm doubled over in his hold, nearly collapsing if not for one of JT’s arms suddenly clamping around his middle, holding him upright.

_ Br’the… _

Tears didn’t come. Silence surrounded the two of them. Malcolm opened his mouth to scream but nothing followed. He squeezed his eyes against the agony shredding him apart from the inside out, cauterizing the fresh wounds in his heart. Air was punched from his lungs. JT strained behind him. His voice thundered in the background, but Malcolm couldn’t hear it, couldn’t focus, couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

_ J’st...breathe… _

“--ight! Hey!  _ Bright! _ ” JT pulled his torso up, his legs flopping and almost failing underneath him. He locked Malcolm against his chest. “Hey, come on, man, breathe.”

Malcolm wheezed.

“Bright! Man, you’ve got to breathe, man!” Malcolm lashed out weakly. JT shouted, “Bright! Hey, hey!  _ Malcolm!  _ Look at me!”

Malcolm’s eyes snapped open.

He stared back at himself from the mirror. But it wasn’t him. It was something else. Something JT ushered closer, held upright. It stared at Malcolm, wild-eyed like an animal, its gaze sunken and dark, rimmed with black bags and pale skin and stress. He blinked, and the thing mimicked him, stole his face. The thing was an insulting caricature of Malcolm Bright. It stripped away the Bright in his name and slapped down the Whitly in its place.

His eyes fell to his hands. “My hands…” His voice rumbled in his chest, not quite his, either. Did it steal his voice, too? “I need to wash my hands.”

“There’s nothing there, man.”

A knock at the bathroom door startled Malcolm in his skin, nerves firing hot. He jerked JT’s arms. He wheezed, “What was that?”

“It’s Dani.” JT answered quietly. “She’s got clothes.”

“My hands…” Malcolm tried. “I--”

JT snapped, “ _ No _ . Dude, your going to hurt yourself even more…”

Malcolm squirmed, trying to wrestle free from JT's hold, when he glanced up to Dani.

In the mirror, Malcolm caught sight of her curls poking from behind the door. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him. “Bright? You good?” She turned, glancing behind her, before stepping into the men’s room. Folded against her chest was a pair of muted blue scrubs and a pair of brandless white socks.

Malcolm’s heart skipped in place. He relaxed in JT’s arms, muscles giving way to jellied relief as he blinked up at her. She flanked their left, standing clear in Malcolm's vision. “Dani…?” A knob caught in his throat. “How’s Gil?”

She hung her head, lips tight. “Not sure yet.”

_ J’st...breathe… _

Malcolm sighed softly.

JT reached out, grabbing the clothes. He pulled them under his arm, then deliberately stepped on the back of Malcolm’s right shoe. “Slide it out, dude. We’ve got to wash them.”

“They didn’t have any extra shoes or anything,” Dani knelt down and guided Malcolm’s leg out of the dress shoe. “So, you get changed, and I’ll clean these off. All right?”

Malcolm nodded. He let JT shuffle them into the handicap stall, his body numbed and cooled over with a still panic.

Gil could be dead. He could be coding on some slab in the operating room. He could be bleeding out, his blood spattering on the tiles.

_ J’st...breathe… _

JT’s fingers worked fast at Malcolm’s tie and suit jacket, draping them over the metal bar. Malcolm slipped away from himself, his body swaying slightly as his mind pulled up and into the corner of the stall, as high and far away as it could get. He watched as JT undid the buttons of his stained dress shirt. He moved to Malcolm’s belt.

“I don’t want to hear a word about this later, man…” JT chuckled. “I ain’t ever living this down.”

Malcolm barely heard it. Instead, his mind fixated on the sink turning back on and rushing water outside the stall.

He blinked, and JT was smirking. “Damn, you  _ really _ are scrawny. How’d you get into the FBI?”

He blinked, and he wrung his hands, absently soothing his nerves.

He blinked, and JT was still moving, tugging, lifting his arm here, his leg there, a muted sensation on his calves and wrists and shoulders.

He blinked, and he was drifting up like a balloon, up into nothing.

He blinked, and JT was talking softly to him.

He blinked, and the tap was shut off. Malcolm rubbed the skin of his arms the scrubs didn’t cover, the cold pinching his forearms. JT stretched to unlocked the stall door, and Dani came through, dropping his soap-scented shoes to the tile. She offered out a hand. “Here,” she said, and Malcolm held to her wrist as he stepped into the shoes. “I had to toss the laces because they were soaked in blood--”

Malcolm cringed.

JT cleared his throat loudly.

“--but I figured they’d work without.” she finished quietly, clapping her hands together. “Ready?”

“No.” His voice tasted like copper in his mouth. He wanted to vomit.

JT snaked his arms behind Malcolm's back. “Let’s go, man. Come on.”

Dani lead the way from the bathroom, and Malcolm trailed behind, a hollowed out  _ something _ that followed her because he was told to, and nothing more. If he had it his way, he would be left to sit on the tile of the bathroom, scrubbing his disgusting hands until there was nothing left but stumps.

They dropped into a row of seats connected by the wood arms. Dani sat still, rubbing her hands together, while JT kicked his leg up over his thigh and pulled out his phone.

Malcolm, however, melted into the seat. He sagged back, breathing slow,  _ just...breathing _ , as his fingers curled into themselves.

And time passed.

It slid by fluidly as one second eased into the next, and Malcolm sat, silently, quietly, disappearing into himself, into his thoughts that were somehow, for once, thoughtless and empty. He saw nothing but black, a blank slate of sterile silence. For the first time in a long time, Malcolm felt nothing. He didn’t feel the crush of depression, the stream of anxiety, the rush of adrenaline, the screams of his own voice echoing through his dreams.

He felt nothing.

Numb.

Cold.

His father’s voice disappeared, but so did Gil’s.

He could no longer hear his father’s spite, his cries, but he no longer heard Gil’s soothing, his hushes.

He heard nothing but silence.

“Family of Gil Arroyo?”

Dani stood. JT followed. She reached over, holding his shoulder. Malcolm felt himself stand, felt his feet hit the floor and his body push upright, but nothing followed. His mind stayed in the chair. His emotions were left in the bathroom.

“He’s unconscious..” the nurse said.

Malcolm went stiff between Dani and JT’s shoulders.

She continued, “...but he’s stable. We’ve given him some heavy stuff to keep him out while he heals. Though it may be wearing off about now, we don’t expect him to wake up for another twelve hours-or-so.”

“When can we see him?” Dani asked. She inched closer beside Malcolm. “We’re all he has…”

The nurse nodded. “Soon. Hopefully. Likely tomorrow.” Her fingers clicked against the clipboard resting over her stomach. “The wound was deep but, fortunately, the artery was only nicked. I assume you were the one to save him?” She gestured to Malcolm.

Malcolm huffed, “Yeah…”

“Well, you did everything right.” Her smile didn’t reach him. Malcolm began to drift away from himself once more. “He’ll make a good recovery, we hope, given plenty of time and patience. In the future, we can discuss a plastic surgeon’s place in making the scar less noticeable, should he decide to go that route. For now, we’re focused on recovery, and making sure he makes it through the night without complications.”

Complications.

It was a funny little word that ruined everything. His father being a serial killer was called a complication, a complication of psychopathy in his genes, a weird wiring in his brain that made him a guiltless narcissist. His father breaking free, stabbing his guard, slicing through Gil’s throat like a knife through hot butter, was a result of a complication, something faulty, someone not doing their job right, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gil’s life, hanging in the balance, could end because of that tiny little word. Because of a complication.

It could end in a moment. It could end while standing with the nurse, listening to her drone about complications.

A shiver ripped through Malcolm’s frame. “I need to see him…”

He must have looked pitiful to her, with his ruined suit wrapped in JT’s arms, dressed in scrubs and water-ruined shoes. He must have looked pitiful, because she frowned over at him, licking her lips carefully. “Sir, I--”

“ _ Please _ .”

Malcolm startled himself into silence.

He was so  _ numb _ , so  _ cold _ , so... _ empty _ ...where had the desperation come from?

Dani and JT glanced down at him, both strained with worry, but Malcolm suddenly couldn’t think past Gil, past seeing him  _ alive _ .

_ We’re the same. _

It wasn’t true.

_ My dear Malcolm. _

That  _ wasn’t _ true.

“Five minutes.”

Malcolm’s head snapped up. The nurse stared down at him expectantly, her eyebrows high. Malcolm stuttered for a moment, looking between Dani and JT, before inching towards her. Dani waved him forward. “Tell us how he is?”

“I will.” He nodded.

Reality crashed into him.

Gil was alive. Barely.  _ Luckily. _

Martin had tried to  _ kill _ him.

“Like I said, he was heavily sedated earlier, and so he’s likely going to be unconscious.” The nurse led him down the hallway, to a nondescript sliding door. Malcolm kept his head down to his chin, where his eyes could find his ruined shoes, his shaking legs, his scrubbed-raw hands. “He’s in here. Five minutes, and that’s it, okay?”

Malcolm glanced up.

Gil looked peaceful. So much so that Malcolm could feel his muscles smoothing out, the tension in his shoulders, his brow, dropping as he breathed in and out mechanically.

Despite the IVs poking out of his skin, and the thick bandage secured around his throat, Malcolm felt nothing but a wash of peace scrubbing his veins clean. He drifted into the room, the nurse sliding the door shut behind him wordlessly. The beeps and rings from the hallways disappeared, leaving Malcolm in a void of silence.

Malcolm dropped into the chair next to Gil’s bed. He inched closer, on the edge of the seat, and scooped up Gil’s hand. Warmth burned his fingertips, searing the feeling of Gil, of  _ life _ , into his palm. Malcolm covered Gil’s hand with his other, cradling it tight and as close as he could get it as he bowed over the bed and  _ breathed. _

His mind snapped back into place.

His emotions surged through him.

He  _ felt _ . Felt so much that it almost felt like  _ too much. _

“Gil…” he whispered. “It’s me…” Malcolm’s eyes raked over the wad of white gauze taped over Gil’s skin, transfixed. “I…” He breathed out, breathed in again, and his chest expanded so deeply he felt lightheaded with relief. “I’m so sorry…” His cheeks were hot with tears before he could swallow them back. “I’m s-so,  _ so sorry. _ For everything. For lying. For my father. For... _ what happened… _ ”

Malcolm sniffled softly, blinking away the tears that glued his lashes together. “I’m sorry that--...for being…” He sighed. “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me…”

Gil remained asleep. His chest rose and fell smoothly in time with the rising and falling pulses on the screen beside his bed. Malcolm’s eyes drifted up to the IV drip, watching the systematic slip of medicine and blood dribbling down through the skinny tubes feeding into Gil.

_ Medicine _

_ Blood. _

_ Life. _

Something that Malcolm had taken for granted. Something that was nearly taken away.

“I’m sorry…” Malcolm brought his head to Gil’s hand. “I’m so sorry.” The tears sprang back up, choking him. He wheezed around them. “I’m  _ so fucking sorry and it’s all my fault _ \--”

Gil’s hand twitched.

Malcolm’s head snapped up to meet warm eyes. Warm eyes that brought a sun to Malcolm’s shower, brought a breath of air to Malcolm’s claustrophobic isolation. Gil blinked over at him, slowly, expressionless but face soft with sleep. Malcolm stilled. “G-Gil…? You--Are you okay?”

Gil pursed his lips into a ‘shh’, but no sound followed. His IV-riddled hand stumbled across the sheets to drop on top of Malcolm’s head, a steady weight. His thumb brushed over Malcolm’s hairline, smoothing back the strands that had fallen into his face. He opened his mouth before Malcolm could protest, croaking in a quiet voice, “M-My... _ My… _ ”

_ My dear Malcolm. _

Malcolm tightened. His father’s voice rang clear, loud, an ever-present silence lingering behind him, watching his every move, hearing his every breath, waiting--

_ “ _ ...’on... _ m-my _ son…” Gil rasped. Malcolm shuddered. He pulled his head from Malcolm’s head and dropped it heavy on his chest, his fingers weakly gesturing to himself. “ _ My... _ s’n…”

His eyes burned through Malcolm. Serious. Completely. Wholly. An unwavering strength that Malcolm couldn’t quite fathom.

_ We’re the same. _

But they weren’t.

They were nothing alike.

_ My son. _

No.

Malcolm was  _ Gil’s _ son.


	8. Survivor

Malcolm was a survivor.

Above all else, it was his one constant. It was as constant as the second hand’s continuous ticks, tapping in time as the day slipped through his fingers. It was as constant as the repeated beatings he sustained throughout the years, leaving him to always drag himself up, to always brush himself off using his dirtied hands. Hands that had poison caked under the fingernails. Hands that were soiled in the blood of The Surgeon’s victims. Hands that touched death - that  _ needed _ death - in order to keep sane.

  
  


次

  
  


Malcolm glared up at Simon as the man buzzed in front of the windows, stressed, high on trepidation, the pale light through the blinds brightening his sharp teeth as he smirked, scoffing. The room became jagged, sharp with pent anticipation. Stiff lies lined the walls, the floor, getting heavier the more Malcolm talked, the more Simon picked and pecked as his psyche, the more Malcolm played him into a trap.

Simon buried his hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on Malcolm’s. He raked slowly over his expression, steel gaze thick, driving through Malcolm like a metal stake. Simon stared as if he had Malcolm figured out. He stared as if he were the one leading an undercover investigation in a wire-tapped room. As if he were the one with the ploy. As if he were the one manipulating with ease.

_ Manipulating someone. Easily. Willingly. _

_ Just like dad. _

_ “We’re the same.” _

“You became aggressive with Vosler.” Simon said.

_ “We’re the same.” _

Cold ripped through Malcolm. His throat constricted. He shivered, tensing to remained as still as possible under Simon’s hot gaze.

_ You’re manipulating. _

_ Easily. _

_ Willingly. _

He ground his teeth together, head pounding.

_ You’re manipulating an instigator. A kidnapper. A  _ monster. _ Not a victim. _

Andi was the victim. Not Simon. Not Malcolm. And she needed Malcolm to pull through, to hold strong as Simon prodded him, weeding through the folds of his mind, pulling him apart like peeling cooked meat off the bone.

Malcolm needed to find her. He had to crack Simon before Simon cracked him.

Pressure swelled between Malcolm’s ribs, his pulse kicking through his veins, too hot, his heart skipping like a stone. He took a sharp breath and raised his chin.

Simon’s eyes scraped over Malcolm’s exposed nerves. “Saving Andi had become an obsession, hadn’t it? Another way to avoid your own trauma.”

Malcolm steadied his breaths. He swallowed down his emotions.

It hurt.

_ Good. _

“I was  _ fine. _ ” There was more bite to his words, but Malcolm accepted it, embracing his anger in place of stress that would give him away. That would give him away, and it would kill Andi.

He didn’t matter.

“‘Fine’.” Simon chuckled in the back of his throat, bitter. “There’s that word again. Whenever you say you’re ‘fine’, a warning bell goes off in my head.”

Malcolm tensed. He was giving himself away too easily. Distantly, he wished he didn’t speak at all. Distantly, he wished Simon would spit out Andi’s location - if he was even the deprogrammer, if Malcolm was even right - but that wouldn’t happen.

It wasn’t that easy.

He locked his mind down. The walls came up as his fears went down, pushed to the root of his brain, somewhere where he couldn’t see them.

Simon couldn’t win. Couldn’t snap him.

He squeezed his hands into fists until his knuckles went white.

  
  


次

  
  


Malcolm was a survivor.

He was as sure of that as he was his name. Malcolm. Malcolm Bright. _. _ A survivor.

As a child, he would hear those words. He would hear, “you’re a survivor”, “you’re strong”, “you need to be strong, Malcolm, because you’re a  _ survivor _ ”. He had heard them from the huddles of child psychiatrists. From the thongs of school counselors. From the hoards of teachers and staff that didn’t cower from his name, from his blood. He had heard his mother whisper it against his ear as he thrashed and kicked and screamed, trapped between the claws of a nightmare. He had heard his sister kiss it to his temple as he struggled to keep his eyes open, an empty pill bottle rolling off the pads of his fingers, the blues and reds of an ambulance flicking through his window. He had heard Gil say it to him with one hand clamped firm on his shoulder, fingers against his nape, guiding him towards his cruiser at three in the morning as Gil humored him for yet another stakeout.

  
  


次

  
  


“Dam _ nit! _ ”

The gun in Malcolm’s face dipped with Simon’s shaking. His finger skittered against the trigger, itching to pull it, to run, to escape his ultimate checkmate.

He would pull the trigger, and Malcolm’s brains would splatter across the carpet.

He would pull the trigger, and Simon’s own guts would splash over the back wall as Gil, Dani, and JT opened fire.

He would pull the trigger, and they would both die.

Malcolm’s pulse was calm. Calmer than he realized it  _ should _ have been as he raised his hands to Simon, steady as if he were coaxing a snapping dog. “Where’s Andi?” Simon’s wild glare sharpened. He shook his head, and Malcolm pressed, firmly, “Just tell me where she is. This isn’t you, Simon. You’re a rational man. A  _ doctor _ .” He breathed in easily.

He was afraid of dying. Of being shot by Simon.

_ Liar. _

Malcolm felt numb. His veins ran dry as he stared the pistol down.

_ You’re lying to yourself. _

He always did. He always had. He always would, just as he lied to everyone.

_ Just like dad. _

_ “We’re the same.” _

Simon snarled. His eyes glittered with tears as he raised the gun higher, shoving it square at Malcolm’s forehead, just shy of right between his eyes.

A point-blank shot would kill Malcolm.

Simon would pull the trigger, and the bullet would rip through the frontal lobe, down between the corpus callosum, obliterating the occipital lobe. The thalamus would spatter into the hypothalamus, clipping the pineal gland, skirting the cerebellum, spraying chunky blood as the bullet left a gummy black flower of brainmatter at the base of his skull. His body would shut down as he died instantaneously, his corpse caving into himself, done, within a beat.

Would Gil scream?

Would Dani cry?

Would JT panic?

Would someone peel his corpse off the carpet, staring into his hollowed eyes as they begged for it to be a dream? Would someone cradle his hand as he was zipped into a body bag, never to see the light of day again? Would someone call his mother, call Ainsley, and tell them what had happened was going to be their reality for eternity?

Would someone save Andi?

Simon hissed, “How do you know that? How do you know I’m not a  _ killer? _ ”

Malcolm couldn’t die.

Andi needed him.

_ Does she, though? _

“Because of Lily.” He glanced down the barrel of the gun, down the strips of metal until his eyes locked with Simon’s. “Your daughter. She didn’t die in a car accident...”

“Don’t you  _ dare. _ ”

“She died in a cult.” Malcolm breathed in. Calm. Simon exhaled shakily. Manic. “You couldn’t save her, so you became a deprogrammer.” He stepped closer and pressed the tip of the gun into the skin of his forehead, just above his eyebrow. “Andi reminded you of her, didn’t she?”

“ _ Stop. _ ” Simon spat. “I see what you’re doing!”

“I’m trying to understand.”

_ Liar. _

_ “We’re the same.” _

“Yeah,  _ yeah _ , you’re trying to make an emotional connection,” Simon straightened his spine. He tapped the trigger. Tension eased from Malcolm’s shoulders. “You’re expressing empathy. I’m a  _ psychiatrist _ , I know that move!”

“You’re right.” Malcolm nodded curtly. The metal scraped against his skin. “This is stimulating: two overeducated men sparring over psychology…”

“That’s not how it  _ works. _ ” Simon blinked hard. Tears dribbled down his cheeks, his eyes red and puffy with hatred, with pain. “Trauma doesn’t just  _ go away _ because someone pretends to understand you.”

Malcolm inhaled.

The air didn’t come.

He stiffened. His legs locked, heart stumbling.

Even as Gil promised to be there, to listen, to  _ understand _ , Malcolm had always felt unsure. He had always felt wrong, exposing Gil to something he hadn’t seen, hadn’t  _ understood _ so intimately. Malcolm had hesitated to expose him, just as he hesitated to expose anyone to that hell.

Nobody had been there with him, with Watkins, with his father. Nobody had been on the camping trip. Nobody had seen the girl in the box. Nobody had watched the scenes that flashed through his nightmares in the midst of the night. Nobody had witnessed the disease that plagued his mind as he replayed dream after dream, moment after moment, over and over. Nobody had felt Watkins’ knife punch between his ribs, had felt the shatter of his thumb, the snap of his sanity.

Gil had tried.

His mother, too.

But they didn’t understand.

They didn’t understand what it felt like to have a blade slide through their skin, hot and cold at the same time, slicing through the fat, the muscle, ripping through the meat, scraping along the bone.

_ Nobody but Watkins. _

They didn’t understand what it felt like to feel like to rattle in his own thoughts, to feel something inside him telling him to do the irrational, the insane, the outlandish things that would shun him but get results.

_ Nobody but dad. _

_ “This is about you...and me…” _

_ They were like him. _

_ “We’re the same.” _

_ He was like them. _

  
  


次

  
  


Malcolm was a survivor.

The word made him sick. The idea made him nauseated.

He was a survivor, but at what cost? He was a survivor - escaping his father’s clutches, escaping Watkins’ hold - but  _ at what cost? _ Malcolm hadn’t felt like a survivor when he curled around himself on his bed, the sheets scraping against his skin, the cold air biting his bare arms and legs, sweating and shaking and struggling to hold himself together after yet another dream. He hadn’t felt like a survivor when he meandered throughout his day, hollowed out, a shell of himself, feeling nothing to avoid feeling everything. He hadn’t felt like a survivor as he hyperventilated - he had been holding a butter knife between his index and thumb, cradled in his palms, spreading bright strawberry jelly over some light toast - his breaths short, shorter, and he wished they wouldn’t come at all.

  
  


次

  
  


The drive was a blur of passing shadows and him shaking in his seat. Malcolm wiped his palms on his slacks, again, and again, sweating and shivering and waiting. Andi was  _ waiting. _

He swallowed around the feeling. Around the thick knob in his throat as he wheezed in the back seat, trembling to himself.

With Watkins, the cold floor had gnawed on his bare feet, on his splayed palms. Was Andi feeling that?

With Watkins, he lost his mind, screaming at ghosts, fighting with himself in the silence. Was Andi doing that?

He had pleaded for someone -  _ anyone _ \- to burst through the door and shoot holes through Watkins’ chest. He had prayed for someone -  _ anyone _ \- to slowly ease the chains from around his wrists. He had  _ begged _ for someone -  _ for fucking anyone _ \- to hold him close as he cried and blubbered and hanked them for never letting him go.

But nobody had come.

Watkins had stabbed him.

_ “This is about you...and me…” _

He had destroyed his own hand.

_ “One...two... _ three _ \--” _

He had saved himself.

_ “This is  _ my _ house.” _

Alone.

_ “Trauma doesn’t just  _ go away _ because someone pretends to understand you.” _

He was always alone.

The car lurched to a stop and Malcolm snapped forward against his belt, jolted back with a rush of adrenaline and a lack of air. He choked, shaking, the stitches in his side tugging as he twisted to get a look out the windshield. JT and Dani clambered out of the vehicle and Malcolm stumbled after them, already breathless.

The manor loomed overhead, brightly lit and dimly shadowed by the night. Vines snaked up the brick walls, slipping between the cracks, stabbing the stone, breaking the foundation around it. The front door was aligned central, tucked between two fluffy pine bushes. Dani reared to the opposing side of JT, and waited with her gun at her side.

“ _ Bright, _ ” Dani hissed. “You were supposed to stay at the car.”

Malcolm shook his head. “Andi’s in there.”

“And we’ll get her.” JT said. “Come on, man--”

“ _ No. _ ” Malcolm’s voice shook. “No, I need her to know she’s not alone.”

_ Like you were. _

_ “Nobody can hear you scream.” _

He blinked hard, fast, flinching. “ _ Please,  _ guys.”

JT tried, “Dude--”

“Okay.” Dani’s eyes sharpened as she stared down at him. “Stay on our six. Don’t wander.”

Malcolm nodded. His legs were numb. His whole body was numb. He felt his mind beginning to float away as he raced in with JT and Dani, the door rattling on its snapped hinges. He felt his body aching for contact, for someone to ground him, as he was left standing before a spiralling staircase, JT going left and Dani going right. He felt his heart yearning for someone, for anyone, and it  _ hurt. _

_ Good. _

JT made for the stairs, Dani directly behind him. Malcolm scrambled after them as they barrelled up the steps to the second floor.

What if they didn’t find Andi?

What if she, too, had been stabbed, and left to bleed out alone?

What if she, too, had to destroy her own body to escape?

What if she, too, had to fight alone?

Malcolm could see the basement at the back of his eyes, could feel the icy floor burning his side, his arms, his cheek from where he rolled and writhed, his blood bubbling from the wound. He blinked, and Dani was in front of him, behind JT as he kicked down a door. He blinked, and Watkins flipped the axe over his shoulder, a sly grin sharpening his insane eyes. He blinked, and JT rushed for another closed room. He blinked, and he was screaming, voice shredding in his throat as he stared down at his blackening hand, at the twisted bone and broken skin and he was shaking from the pain, the exertion as he ripped his hand from the cuff, as he ripped his thumb from its socket with a muffled snapping.

He blinked, and Malcolm was staring at the soft face of Andi, her cheeks bright red and tracked with tears, her lips trembling. Scurrying around JT and Dani as they cleared the corners, Malcolm hurried to her side as she sucked in a shaky breath. “Andi.  _ Andi. _ ” He dropped before her, cupping her jaw in his hands. “It’s me. You’re going to be okay…”

She looked unharmed. Breathing heavy and body jittering, but physically unharmed.

_ “Trauma doesn’t just  _ go away _ \--” _

Malcolm pulled her close, tying her close to him as he wrapped his arms around her tiny frame. She clung to him with her free hand while Dani worked to pick the lock around her right. 

_ “--because someone pretends to understand you.” _

He whispered, “It’s okay. I’m here, Andi. It’s okay.”

“I thought I was going to die!” Andi hiccuped. She curled closer around Malcolm, smushing her face into the crook of his neck. “I thought I was going to die all alone!”

“I know.” He ran his fingers through her warm hair. Her legs trembled as he guided her to her feet, her lips quivering with every breath. “I know. I understand…”

He understood.

Above Dani, and JT, and Gil, and his mother and Ainsley, Malcolm understood Andi. He understood her fear, her panic pooling throughout her body. He understood the inevitability of being utterly and completely alone. He understood.

He opened his mouth to talk, to say so, a smile beginning to curl the corner of his lips because he  _ understood _ her and she was  _ not  _ alone and by  _ God  _ he wanted her to know that.

“We’re here for you,” Dani flanked their side, her hand resting on Andi’s shoulder. “You’re going to be just fine. Let’s get you to the hospital, okay?”

Malcolm’s mouth snapped shut.

Andi disappeared out the doorway with Dani, JT trailing behind them.

They had saved Andi.

Nobody hadn’t saved him.

_ He  _ had saved his mother.  _ He  _ had saved Ainsley.  _ He _ had saved Dani, Gil, and JT the hunt for John Watkins, who had been trapped in a box.

There was nobody left to save him.

  
  


次

  
  


Malcolm was a survivor.

But he didn’t want to be.

He wanted to breathe fresh air without the fear strangling him. He wanted to taste food without it turning to ash on his tongue, without his stomach protesting and spitting it up half-an-hour later. He wanted to love and feel loved, feel  _ whole _ , without the emptiness there to consume him. He wanted to hold someone’s hands and have them feel as real as his  _ should _ feel to himself. He wanted to to feel needed. He wanted to  _ be wanted. _

  
  


次

  
  


“I got to ask a question, Bright…”

Malcolm’s shoulders tightened at his neck. He twisted around, eyes wide, nearly forgetting Gil was there as he swirled his glass in Malcolm’s periphery, nursing what little alcohol he had left in stock. Gil’s eyes softened, smoothing the wrinkles that lines the corners.

Words swelled in Malcolm’s throat. He wanted to talk, to tell Gil to stop talking and let him talk, to tell Gil to  _ keep _ talking to distract him from himself. His ears burned hot with shame, with disgust as his own weakness as he turned away, breathing quick. “Can I stop you?”

“Nope.”

Malcolm breathed in.

His chest tightened.

_ “We’re the same.” _

_ “This is about you...and me…” _

_ “Trauma doesn’t just  _ go away _ because somebody pretends--” _

“Are you okay?” Gil asked warmly. He was always so warm to Malcolm. His voice lightened as he said, “Freaked out Dani pretty good--”

“I’m fine.”

The words slipped out.

Malcolm wanted to vomit.

_ Good. _

His hands began to shake.

_ No. _

_ Not good. _

_ Save yourself. _

_ Please. _

Gil leaned closer. “You sure, kid?”

“I’m okay.” Malcolm said.

_ Take it back. _

_ Just take it back. _

_ Please. _

_ Help. _

“I promise.” He added stiffly, forcing a tight smile.

Gil glanced down into his glass, frowning. His brow dipped as low as his downturned lips as he licked them tentatively, mumbling out a quiet “okay” that sounded somewhere between disappointed, and pained. He gulped back the rest of his drink and moved to stand.

_ Say it. _

_ Take it back. _

_ “We’re the same.” _

_ “This is about you...and me…” _

Malcolm froze.

Gil made for the door.

_ Please. _

_ Help. _

_ “We’re the same.” _

_ “This is about you...and me…” _

_ Alone. _

“Gil!”

Gil turned slowly, face lax, hands in his pockets as Malcolm leapt off his seat, shaking, choking on nothing and everything all at once as his open palm clamped down on a barstool to keep himself upright. He swayed slightly and Gil’s expression twisted as he walked forward. “Kid--?”

“I--!”

_ Say it. _

_ “We’re the same…” _

_ Just say it. _

_ “This is about you...and me…” _

_ Please say it. _

The words caught. His throat tightened and he squeaked, breathless.

_ No, no, no, nonononojustsayit. _

Gil rounded closer, inches away, hands out to catch him should he fall. “Malcolm? Are you--?”

“Help me.”

And Malcolm  _ breathed _ . He shuddered, gasping as tears broke free and fell. Malcolm coughed up a sob, slipping to his knees as Gil shuffled close, kneeling before Malcolm. Malcolm tried to hold it back, tried to breathe, to be  _ fine _ , but a guttural cry ripped up his throat, echoing throughout the apartment, and the tears blurred Gil’s hands reaching out for him.

Gil’s arms wrapped around him tight, pulling Malcolm close to his chest, into his soft embrace. His coat scratched against Malcolm’s cheek but Malcolm  _ could breathe _ because while it hurt to say it, the relief burned so much stronger and so much brighter than he could ever fathom. He could breathe and he breathed deeply, fingers curling into the back of Gil’s jacket. He could breathe and he breathed slowly, letting out the sounds and the tears and the pain trapped inside him. He could finally breathe, and Malcolm  _ breathed _ as much as he could, nestling close to Gil because he finally, for the first time in  _ so goddamn long _ , felt safe.

Safe enough to be scared. Safe enough to be vulnerable. Safe enough to be a victim of Watkins, and his father, and the monsters in the world. Safe enough to cry and still feel strong.

“It’s all right, kid.” Gil rocked shallowly from side to side. “It’s all right, Malcolm. I’ve got you.”

  
  


次

  
  


Malcolm was a survivor.

For exactly twenty years, three months, eighteen days, eleven hours, and thirty-something minutes straight, since Martin’s arrest, Malcolm had been a survivor.

But being a survivor didn’t mean he couldn’t get help. And being a survivor didn’t mean isolation from himself, from the world. He could survive and feel alive at the same time. He could survive and mourn his lost childhood. He could survive and work through his trauma, his fear, his paranoia, his pain, and feel love and friendships and happiness all the same. Malcolm was a survivor, and that was no small feat.

It was about time he was alive enough to feel it.


	9. Quick Lil Shits

_ One _

**Prompt: Absolution**

Gil rolled the ice cubes at the bottom of his glass, watching the whiskey slip around freely before finishing the drink. To his right, Malcolm hovered quietly, picking at his fingers. His loft was quiet and dark in the soft lighting.

After a moment to let the alcohol warm his throat, Gil said, “It’s okay, kid.”

“I  _ fell _ on your car.” Malcolm hunched further around himself. “On Jackie’s car…”

Gil tensed to her name. He tested the word to his lips silently, mouthing ‘Jackie’, ‘Jackie’, but it sounded...off. Despite the gnawing discomfort it caused, Gil had realized, years ago, that Jackie’s name no longer brought a sharp spark of joy to him, no longer made him smile to where it ached. Years had passed. Too many years. Years where his mourning had come and gone, and while he was hurt, he was content. Without realizing it, Gil had begun to move on. He had begun to drift away from her and, while she lingered in a picture here, or a vase she cherished there, Gil was okay.

He was.

But Malcolm, it seemed, was not.

The kid hadn’t been there when Jackie passed. He had been away on a job, hunting down a killer,  _ saving a life  _ while Jackie’s had slipped away. After days of trying to reach Malcolm, Gil had finally gotten a call. Gil’s nerves were still frayed and in unfathomable pain but cauterized by reality, but he had explained, slowly, not only because Malcolm had experienced enough, but because he had, too.

Malcolm had been silent, then.

Just as he was, now.

Gil clamped his hand firmly to the back of Malcolm’s neck, leaning him a bit closer and holding on tight, as if the kid were going to drift away. Malcolm blinked fast, looking away, his eyes glittering with tears.

“She would be glad you’re  _ alive _ , Malcolm.” Gil whispered. “Did I ever tell you about  _ why _ she even had the Le Mans?”

Squeezing his eyes tightly, Malcolm choked out, “Uh, no. No. Why?”

Gil grinned wide, the memory warm in his chest. “Well, it was all the way back when we were kids, in college...”

* * *

_ Two _

**Prompt: Hacksaw**

The man was ill. Mentally, yes, anyone could see that. What with how he scowled to the shadows, cursed at the walls, waving his hacksaw left and right, Malcolm determined within mere seconds after waking that the man was, indeed,  _ mentally  _ ill. But it was the physical illness that started Malcolm. Killers rarely had physical ailments, due to the difficulties to perform their tasks and--

“Son of a  _ bitch! _ ” his captor shrieked.

Malcolm wriggled, the ropes pinching into the soft skin of his wrists.

Hugh Dunbar. Fifty-eight. Paranoid schizophrenic. Likely a lovely man when he wasn’t experiencing a psychotic break, Malcolm guessed. A husband, judging by the wedding ring.

He snarled something at Malcolm, pointing the saw. Dunbar hissed, “This is  _ your _ fault.”

“What is, Hugh?” Malcolm licked his lips. His hands tremored behind his back. While talking down serial killers was his usual, talking down  _ schizophrenic _ people was...different. The man was likely off his medication, killing out of fear, out of the sheer terror his hallucinations brought him.

And Malcolm knew hallucinations.

He knew fear.

“Hugh, let me help--”

“ _ Liar! _ ” Dunbar grabbed Malcolm’s ankle and wrenched him forward, snapping the air from his lungs as his back hit the floor. He jerked and flailed and tried, “Hugh! Wait! Hey!”

The man straddled his shins, grabbing the meat of his thigh in a bruising grip and brought the hacksaw down. Malcolm’s heart kicked up into his throat. Dunbar mumbled, “This one. This is the one. This one, are you sure? Yes, okay, yes…”

He tilted the saw in.

Blade down, poised to cut.

Malcolm screamed.

Gunshots popped and Dunbar dropped, flattening Malcolm and the saw trapped between them. However, the pain didn’t come. Only aching ribs and throbbing arms. Above him, Gil, Dani, and JT rushed over, winded and pale. Malcolm’s breaths shook as he whimpered out, “H-Hey guys.”

* * *

_ Three _

**Prompt: Voodoo**

JT stared down at the papers blankly, his eyes skimming over the words but not quite reading it. He tried again, starting from the top, going from ‘The’ to ‘victim’ to ‘was’ to--

“Having a problem there?” Malcolm asked from across the conference room table. The guy looked entirely too interested in absolutely nothing, grinning over at JT, his wicked blue eyes getting creepier and bluer the more JT looked at him.

“...Why?” JT mumbled.

Malcolm scooted closer in his chair. “Well, I mean…” He shrugged loosely, his lips curving into a snarky, shit-eating grin. “We  _ did _ talk to that psychic yesterday.”

_ Madam Electrika _ , if JT remembered correctly. Which he did. He couldn’t fathom his professional name being so ridiculous. The woman had been entirely unhelpful, spinning them in circles for their case. She was the last known witness to see their victim alive, and while JT had hoped that hearing one of her clients had been murdered would spur her to help them…

...no such luck.

She had mooched and bled them for cash. Her words were as empty as Dani’s stare the entire time. She had looked equally as bored. However, Malcolm had thrived. He had poked and prodded and psychoanalyzed the woman, all while she mumbled and cooed and tried to squeeze dollars out of him. Before anything could happen, Dani and JT had dragged Malcolm out of there.

At the car, JT had scowled, “What a useless wackjob.” He had saw her glaring at him from the doorway of her building. She had given him the cold shoulder, and he had shrugged her off. That was that.

“Maybe she did something to you.” Malcolm squirmed excitedly. His fingers danced as he talked. “Maybe  _ voodoo _ , or maybe a  _ spell _ , or maybe she--”

“Dude.” JT held up his hand. “Stop. I’m  _ tired _ . That’s it.”

Malcolm settled back into his chair, dissatisfaction smoothing his features but he kept quiet nonetheless. JT leaned in to read the report for the umpteenth time, willing his brain to work.

* * *

_ Four _

**Prompt: Inconspicuous**

Malcolm was hiding from her.

He had been slinking around the whole day, not talking to her. When he finally did, it had been in their conference room, with JT and Gil and, even then, he had stayed far from her, standing at Gil’s side, or huddled with his hands in his pockets in the corner of the room. It would have been one thing if he had been discrete, but Malcolm was  _ anything _ but, and he had made an entire show of avoiding.

It had gone on long enough.

She was beginning to get irritated. Not her usual groaning and rolling of eyes but, rather, her cheeks were heated, her eye twitched, her chest burned with the desire to scream at him, “What the  _ hell? _ ” Because only Malcolm Bright could build that much anger in her. Only Malcolm Bright could built  _ that much anger _ and still have her care about him to a fault.

He had been rushing from point A to point B, likely not even noticing her, when she snagged his arm. He had swallowed his yelp of surprise and had let her guide him away, to the more isolated hallways, and ask, “What’s going on with you?”

And that’s where she was, with Malcolm’s face red up to his ears, his lips fumbling around choked out excuses as he fiddled with his fingers, his shirt cuffs, the tail of his tie. His eyes danced over her face, down, up, away, left and right and anywhere but where it mattered. “So, uh,” Malcolm cleared his throat. “Well, I mean, I--...So...uh, well, okay so here’s the thing okay, so…”

“Malcolm,” Dani huffed. “Just spit it out?”

“ _ Want to go out? _ ”

She reeled back, not hiding her surprise. “Like a  _ date? _ ”

“Yeah. Or, well, because...I mean JT said--...So I mean…” He shook his hands out. “So, do you? Or not? That’s fine.”

“Christ, Malcolm…” Dani turned away, biting her smile. Because  _ of course  _ he was overthinking it. Because  _ of course _ he was so nervous, so  _ invested _ in her feelings of him.  _ Because of course _ , all she could say was, “Of course.”

His eyes lit up. Dani felt weightless.

* * *

_ Five _

**Prompt: Beg**

"Pl'se… _ pl--! _ "

Malcolm's muttering was cut off by a cry. He twisted in the shackles, pulling them taut, the belts cutting into his skin. Gil jumped up from the couch, rushing to close the distance between them.

It had been mere hours since Malcolm was released from the hospital, and while he had the doctors and nurses fooled, Gil knew Malcolm had barely been sleeping. He had suspected Malcolm may never sleep the same after what Watkins had done.

He had begged Gil, his expression ruffled with exhaustion. "Every two hours. Please."

"Kid…" Gil had sighed, had dropped his hands to his hips. "I--You need to  _ sleep _ , Malcolm. You need to heal."

"Not here." Malcolm's eyes had been haunted, a glassy darkness hollowing the heart out of his bright gaze. " _ Not here _ , Gil. I can't. Please…"

Gil had agreed. He had agreed on one stipulation: Malcolm would let him stay over for the first night.

The evening had gone fast, and dinner's leftovers had been packed and put into the fridge to likely never be touched again. Malcolm had gingerly gotten into bed, his side pulling enough to catch his breath, but he had settled quickly and, within minutes, he was out.

He was, until he wasn't. 

Malcolm thrashed and fought and screamed into the mouthguard. "Pl's…" The words were muffled by the guard. Gil knelt by the kid, taking his shoulders to shake him awake. "Pl's...W'k'ns... _ k'll m… _ "

Gil tensed. A spike of cold speared through his throat and he blinked down at Malcolm, at the desperation turning his eyebrows and twisting his lips.

Heartache winded him. With the breath punched from his lungs, and a hope for normalcy wilting, Gil roughly shook Malcolm, his hand squeezing at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. "Malcolm.  _ Malcolm. _ Wake up."

He did, gasping, shaking, spitting his mouthguard free. He did, and he stared up at Gil, croaking, "S-Sorry...uh, what--"

Gil pulled him into a loose hug, enough that Malcolm could free himself. But, instead, he sagged into Gil's touch and Gil cradled him close, fingers carding through his hair, a hand splayed flat and firm between his shoulder blades.

"I'm so sorry, Malcolm." Gil whispered. "I'm so sorry…"

* * *

_ Six _

**Prompt: You're Pretty When You Cry**

Fifteen years.

It had been fifteen years and, somehow, it still hurt. She, somehow, still managed to cry. Dani had learned to hold it in to her mantra, "don't think about it".

But Malcolm had been eyeing her during the hellishly long day. His gentle gaze had flicked up to her every few moments. He had filtered his words. He had calculated his thoughts for maximum sensitivity because  _ of course _ he remembered it was the anniversary of her father's death.

Everyone had left. The precinct was near empty when Dani burst into the women's restroom and snapped. She coughed around her tears, her throat tightening as pain swelled in her chest and she cried against the sinks. She cried, and cried, and while the sound died down, the tears didn't stop.

That is, until Malcolm walked in.

Then  _ everything  _ stopped.

All thought, all action, all coherency gone as she stared up at him through the mirror, mortification and surprise and disgust at herself all rolled into one as she turned on the tap and began to scrub at her face. Mascara and eyeshadow blended into her cheeks as she rinsed and washed the evidence away.

Malcolm settled next to her as she turned off the water and leaned over the sink.

"Thought you went home." she mumbled.

He sighed, "Nope." After a beat, he said, "Want to talk about it?"

"When I've got makeup everywhere and I'm all ugly and still at work? Hell no." She laughed a bit despite her twisting emotions.

Malcolm smiled softly at her. "You don't look ugly. You look really pretty, actually."

His face went red as she felt her own eyes divert to the floor. She mumbled, "Uh...thanks?"

"I just meant--Like, you...you're not  _ ugly. _ " Malcolm's hands were moving in her periphery as he rambled. "Like, like, I mean, because you said you were ugly but you're not and I mean it's...I mean, like--"

"I get it." Dani interrupted. Malcolm closed his mouth. She continued, "Thank you."

"Sure." he breathed, relaxing. "Want some tea?"

* * *

_ Seven _

**Prompt: Reload**

The body would, at times, freeze so tightly that it would shake. Malcolm knew this, and yet, it didn't deter from the irritation that bubbled somewhere in the corner of his mind as his whole body vibrated from head to toe as he stared down the barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead.

"Stay  _ fucking  _ still." The man rammed it to the bone, growling at Malcolm's wince. His hands, raised to either side of his head, bounced in his periphery. He couldn't think, nothing was coming to mind save for gun, gun, gun,  _ gun. _

Malcolm swallowed around his closed-off windpipe, breaths rattling. The man snarled, "What's your fucking  _ problem,  _ man? I said stay  _ fucking _ still!"

But Malcolm's hands shook. His legs shook. His lungs shook.  _ Hell _ , even his  _ eyes _ shook as his mind blanked and adrenaline kicked his senses into overdrive. He could feel the barrel, the metal, the cold burning his skin. He could see the man's finger dancing on the trigger. He could hear it in his voice, could hear the intent to kill as he screamed, "Quit fucking moving!"

He could taste blood on his tongue as the pistol cracked him across the cheek and sent him sprawling to the ground.

The man bit, "I'm going to empty this shit into your fucking  _ skull! _ I'm going to--!"

He rocked forward as a bullet punched through his chest. Malcolm stared up, wide-eyed as JT dropped to his side. He reloaded his gun at Malcolm's left, gaze fixed on his task as he said, "Dude, you really need to stop getting kidnapped."

* * *

_ Eight _

**Prompt: Malignant**

“The Whitlys are a  _ cancer _ . Disgusting,  _ vile _ monsters! All of them!”

Dani spun around in time to catch Malcolm stiffen behind her, stopping from where he was trailing after her with casefiles. His eyes fell as he wilted, crumpling in on himself with a defeated sigh. His gaze flitted up to Dani’s. Something deep in him looked back at her, both exhausted and ready to run, to flee from the spiteful words of the rookie cop in the middle of the bullpen.

“Malcolm,” Dani nodded him forward. “Come on--”

He walked a bit quicker, breaths a bit faster, as he snapped up to Dani’s side, both moving in tandem until they reached Gil’s office. Gil dragged his gaze up from his work and tensed, expression twisting. “What happened?”

Dani closed the door behind Malcolm, ushering him to sit on the sofa as she stood guard. “New guy. Anderson? Talking shit.”

“I’m fine, Gil.” Malcolm mumbled. He scrubbed his hands over his face, breathing in sharp through his nose. “Just... _ embarrassed _ . Mostly.”

“What’d he say?” Gil asked, his eyes searching Dani for an answer when Malcolm’s head hung further.

She said, “Called him...a cancer. His whole family.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Malcolm waved them off. But his hand was buzzing with unused adrenaline, his whole body shaking, breathing quick. “It--I’m fine, guys. Really.”

Gil’s hand clamped down on the base of Malcolm’s neck, rocking him gently, and Malcolm seemed to relax into the feeling, melting, easing closer to Gil as Gil moved to sit down next to Malcolm on the sofa. Dani folded her arms tight across her chest. Eventually, Dani said, “I’ll...talk to Anderson. Put him straight.”

“Please.” Gil gestured to the door.

Malcolm glanced up at her with a weathered ‘thank you’ in his eyes. She nodded, turned, and made for the door, her gaze locked on the rookie cop.

* * *

_ Nine _

**Prompt: Rescue**

The car teetered over the edge of the bridge, tipping dangerously with the wind, the destroyed railing underneath squealing with every shift made. JT’s heart kicked up into his throat, choking him as he ran forward. Dani was close behind.

He slammed his hands down on the back of the car, as if that could hold it from careening nose-first into the rushing river below. Dani scurried around the side to where Gil was half-out of the driver’s seat, his belt securing him in place, his door dangling off its hinges. She cried, “Gil! Where’s Bright?”

“Here…!” Gil wheezed. JT couldn’t see much through the tinted back window of the SUV. “He-He’s out! He got knocked out!”

JT growled. He took deep breaths, bracing himself, shaking hard as he popped the trunk and peered inside the wobbling car. Two rows of seats ahead, Gil was shouting out to Dani, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. Malcolm, in the passenger’s seat, was slumped forward, completely oblivious to the curling white rapids dozens of feet below.

“Get him out, JT!” Gil barked over his shoulder. “Now!”

JT plunged into the back of the car. He was careful but quick as he crawled over the seats to reach Malcolm. JT settled behind the passenger’s side chair, looping his arm over Malcolm’s chest to hold him fast as he flipped his switchblade out and began to cut through the belt. JT cringed. “Boss.” He shifted his grip on Malcolm, fisting his suit as his whole arm became slippery with sticky hot blood. “He’s bleeding. A lot.”

“I know!” Gil worked at his own belt. “Just get him out!”

JT sawed faster. The belt gave and Malcolm’s weight sagged forward. The movement was sloppy, but JT managed to drag him up past the center console. Straining, JT dragged Malcolm up across his shoulders. Gil ripped his own belt free with a strangled gasp, his chest spasming.

The car groaned.

And tilted.

Dani screamed, “Guys!”

JT’s head snapped up as he felt gravity give way to weightlessness.

* * *

_ Ten _

**Prompt: Xenophobia**

The woman was prissy and tight-lipped, her hair bleached and straightened to a charred disaster but who was Dani to judge? Perhaps that was the way she liked it. Perhaps that’s what serial killers were into.

The woman had murdered nearly five women before she was caught. JT wrangled her into cuffs as she shrieked, screaming prophanities, spewing curses that left Dani shivering with pent-up rage. She scowled at Dani as JT shoved her forward. “You  _ disgusting slut! _ Go back to your country!”

Dani rolled her eyes. She turned away, hands in her jacket as the killer cried out at her, at  _ Dani _ .

It wasn’t the first time she had to deal with them. Being a person of color was hard enough as is, but a  _ woman _ of color? Luckily, New York City was so mixed that people normally didn’t bat an eye. Nonetheless, she was someone still baffled, still swept away by the rudeness of people like their killer.

“You okay?”

Dani spun around, nearly smacking into Malcolm. He was rubbing his hands together, worrying his lower lip.

“Honestly?” She vibrated, smiling because she wasn’t sure what else to do. “No. No, I’m not okay.”

“Okay.” Malcolm bowed his head a bit. “Completely understandable.” He sat down on the curb and gestured for her to follow. Dani plopped down next to him, chin in her hands and elbows propped up on her knees.

“Xenophobic bitch.” Dani scowled.

Malcolm huffed, “You can say that again…”

* * *

_ Eleven _

**Prompt: Zero In**

“Bright…” JT pinched his brow. “Do you...even know how to use a gun?”

Malcolm fiddled with the glock in his hands, lightly juggling it between his palms as if it weren’t a  _ loaded weapon _ . Sure, the safety was on - and if JT could, he would swap it out for a super-soaker and give  _ that _ to Malcolm - but as Malcolm rolled the thing in his grip, the more worry mounted in JT.

The muffs for his ears were a bit too big for his head, chunky and snapped to the smallest size. Malcolm weighed the pistol in his right hand, shifted it to his left, and said, “Yeah, I got this.”

JT’s eyebrow popped up. “You sure?”

“I was in the FBI,” Malcolm threw his hands out boisterously, waving the gun out. “I  _ know _ what I’m doing, JT.”

Sighing, JT mumbled, “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Okay.” Malcolm jutted his chin up. “Watch this.” He flipped around, facing the target. The gun-wagging Malcolm flipped like a switch, his shoulders rolling back and posture locking into place as he raised the glock and took aim. In one breath, he was focused, and the next, he fired.

Gunfire cracked through the room, one after another after another and soon the paper board was riddled with holes, the magazine half-emptied and the target obliterated from the center out. JT whistled as Malcolm lowered the gun, still tense, still poised to fire.

“Damn, pipsqueak.” JT pressed a button on the console, and the target paper raced forward. Malcolm had destroyed the thing, aiming the holes to bleed into one another, leaving a gaping wound in the center of the would-be killer’s chest and neck. “You got a good eye.”

“Thanks.” Malcolm smirked. He blinked, frowned, and whipped up to look at JT. “Wait, did you just call me  _ ‘pipsqueak’ _ ?”

* * *

_ Twelve _

**Prompt: Narrow**

Malcolm could hardly breathe. Dust and dirt kicked up into his lungs, leaving him wheezing as he dragged himself along the ground. The sharp rock walls bit in between his ribs, stabbed him in the stomach and thighs and shoulders, startling him when they broke the skin.

He crawled through the caved-in tunnel, breaths quick, thoughts quicker. His mind supplied him with a secondary cave in, an aftershock to the earthquake that buried him in the first place.

Malcolm reached through a particularly small spot. He began to haul himself through. Gravel and stones rolled in between his shirt and suit jacket, mud dirtying everything, smeared across his face and slicking up his hands. He gripped a jutted rock to help haul himself through the narrow hole.

One tug, and his head was free. Ahead, warm sunlight left him gasping around tears.

Another tug, and he was stuck.

Malcolm choked around a frantic sob as he pulled harder, kicking his legs as much as he could in the tight spot. The rock walls were getting smaller. The cave was collapsing again. Wasn't it? Malcolm couldn't breathe. He couldn't  _ move _ .

A cry ripped up his throat as he slammed his fist in frustration, the shrill sound echoing throughout the collapsed cave. He dropped his forehead, shaking, shivering from the cold and the fear as his panic constricted around his windpipe and squeezed so hard he was lightheaded.

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm's head snapped up. "G-Guh--!" He sucked in a dust-muddled gasp. " _ Gil! _ "

"Hang on, kid!" His voice was distant, reverberating through Malcolm's bones. Malcolm blinked hard. Gil continued, "We're coming to get you! Just hang on!"

There was a shuffle of murmurs nearby, a snap and clanking, and in the halo of light ahead, Gil dropped from above. A rope was threaded through his belt loops, his eyes wide and weakened with worry as he surged forward. "Malcolm! Hang on, kid. I've got you." He dropped in front of Malcolm and grabbed his free hand.

Malcolm melted at the contact.

* * *

_ Thirteen _

**Prompt: Infect**

" _ G'l! _ " Malcolm's hand cracked across Gil's cheek, snapping his chin sideways but Gil couldn't find it in himself to be frustration because even with that small contact, he could feel the bruising heat kicking off of Malcolm's body. The kid lashed out in his sleep, screaming around his mouthguard, eyes wrenched shut.

His nightmares were normally violent. The fever, it seemed, only made it that much worse.

Malcolm thrashed, twisting and writhing half-off the bed, fighting his restraints. Gil held him by his upper arms, clamping down and pushing him bodily to the mattress as he called out, "Bright! You need to wake up, kid!"

The kid jerked to consciousness, hands flying up to fist into the fabric of Gil's sleeves as he stared up at him. Lucidity was lost in Malcolm, only a feverish haze clouding his electric eyes. He turned his head and let his mouthguard tumble out. Malcolm croaked, "G-Gil…? What're you doing here?" His eyes narrowed. "You...You're not actually here...You're a hallucination…"

"I'm real, Bright." Gil moved his hands, one rubbing over Malcolm's clavicle, the other brushing his fringe from his face. "Damn, your fever's worse than it was at the precinct."

"Fever?" Realization glistened in Malcolm's eyes as he wrangled himself free and backed up against the headboard. "Stay back, I'm sick! You could catch it--!

"Kid, I've been here for hours." Gil raised his hands. "I know what I'm getting into."

At that, Malcolm visibly relaxed. He sagged over himself. "Sorry...I forgot...I-I think I just need sleep."

Gil eased him back to lay down. His knees popped as he sat down beside Malcolm's hip. "Then rest, Bright." Malcolm hummed. His eyes slipped shut.

* * *

_ Fourteen _

**Prompt: Vouch**

"You're a Whitly, right?"

JT turned around faster than Malcolm had, his chin already upturned at the officer who was staring at Malcolm.

Malcolm said, "My name's Bright."

"Yeah, but...you were born a Whitly. To the Surgeon?" The officer folded his arms across his chest.

While JT knew Malcolm didn't necessarily  _ hide _ his heritage, he knew that the guy didn't want it to be known throughout the entire precinct. Most were decent, or at least nondescript in their discomfort as working with the Surgeon's son. Upon first meeting Malcolm, JT had felt similar. But as the months passed and seasons slipped by, JT realized just how much Malcolm brought to their team. He was a crucial asset, not just a manic wackjob with a penchant for doing stupid shit, as most people assumed.

The curious stare in the officer's eyes made JT's muscles tense in anticipation. It wouldn't have been the first time someone took a swing at Malcolm for being a Whitly.

And it likely wouldn't be the last.

"Yes." Malcolm held his head high. "My father  _ is _ doctor Martin Whitly."

The officer nodded thoughtfully. "Good on you, then. Saving lives like you do." His words shocked both JT and Malcolm to silence. "Your methods aren't...traditional for us cops, but you get the job done. So good on you, man." He cracked a smile. "Anyone that says otherwise can talk to me. I'll vouch for you."

Malcolm whispered, "Uh, thanks."

The man clapped them both on their shoulders as he passed by.

* * *

_ Fifteen _

**Prompt: Clack**

Malcolm's pen slipped from his fingers, making a little clacking sound on the floor. Dani glanced over in time to see his eyes roll up. Malcolm went limp, smacking to the floor. Dani jerked out of her chair and, in a breath, she was knelt by his side, rolling him over and hauling him into her lap by the lapels of his jacket.

"Bright?  _ Jesus _ …!" Dani rested her arm behind his shoulders, holding him up as his eyes fluttered open and he snapped awake.

He blinked blearily up at her. "D-Dani? What...What happened?"

"You passed out." She pressed her hand to his forehead. "You don't have a fever…"

Malcolm grumbled, face pinching in discomfort. "I'm not sick, Dani…" He moved to sit up, but swayed. Dani eased him back down, hand on his chest as he breathed deep. "Just...a little dizzy."

"Dizzy?" Dani glanced up when the conference room door clicked open. JT stood, mouth open, and Dani nudged her chin towards Gil's door. JT nodded. Dani continued "Have you eaten today?"

Malcolm laughed weakly. "Today? I, uh, I haven't...for, like, three."

"Three  _ days? _ " Gil and JT's heavy footsteps neared the conference room. "Damnit, Bright."

Malcolm frowned. "I'm sorry. I'm...I just forgot…"

"Don't apologize." Dani rubbed her hand over his heart. She smiled tightly despite her still racing heart. "It's okay."

* * *

_ Sixteen _

**Prompt: Knock-Knock**

The kid was a crying mess, her cheeks bright red and fists balled at her sides. JT was better with kids than Dani was, but he was busy wrangling the woman of the husband-wife murdering partnership into the back of a squad car, her screams cutting through her husband's shouts.

Dani holstered her gun, carefully walking towards the little girl. She had no idea what she'd say or do.

Malcolm cut in front of her before she could reach the girl. He knelt down, shorter than her now, and asked, softly, "Knock knock."

The girl's eyes flicked over to him. "W-Who's there?"

"Orange." Malcolm grinned.

The kid huffed, "Orange you glad I didn't say banana? That's so boring…" Her eyes drifted up to where JT slammed the door in the mother's face, cutting her off mid-shout.

Quickly, Malcolm pulled a lollipop from his pocket and flipped it up into the girl's face. "No... _ orange. _ Orange dumdum. Do you like lollipops?"

Dani felt her heart flutter as the little girl plucked it from his fingers. She whispered, "thank you…" to him and began to unwrap it.

Malcolm said, "You're welcome."

* * *

_ Seventeen _

**Prompt: Email**

"Did you get Gil's email?"

Malcolm glanced up at Dani, brows furrowed. "Uh, no." He hesitated in the conference room doorway, glancing between her and JT. "What's going on?"

JT shrugged. "He's sick. Won't be coming in today. And we've got no new cases, so we don't need you, either." With a snort, he finished, "Lucky dude."

"He's sick?" Malcolm asked.

Because Gil never got sick. He was never ill, nor never took the day off. He was strict in scheduling and always on time. Hearing he was sick left Malcolm cold. A shiver ran up his neck. The only time he had taken off, to Malcolm's memory, was after the depression set in during a heavy month soon after Jackie's death.

When he was in a dark place, darker than Malcolm ever wanted to see him in.

"You good, bro?" JT raised an eyebrow. "I can give you some of my work--?"

"I need to go." Malcolm spun on his heel, muttering a sharp, "sorry" before closing the conference room door.

The drive to Gil's place was agonizingly slow, but Malcolm's thoughts were racing. As soon as the car pulled up to the curb, he leapt out and rushed up the stone steps, practically slamming into the door as he jammed the spare key into the lock and twisted the knob.

A very tired, very haphazard-looking Gil greeted him, frozen mid-step from leaving the kitchen, a piece of bread stuffed into his mouth. His hair was sprung in different directions, glued together by a fever-broken sweat. Gil's glassy eyes focused on Malcolm as he swallowed the bread and asked, "Bright? What are you--?"

"You're sick!" Malcolm laughed out a breath of relief. "You're  _ actually _ sick."

Gil frowned. "I am, yes…"

"Thank god…" Malcolm closed the door behind him. He slowly shrugged off his coat and asked, "Want me to make some food?

"What?" Gil mumbled.

Malcolm repeated, "Food. I'll make food." He rushed for the kitchen, the adrenaline rush of relief still flooding through his veins.

* * *

_ Eightee _ _ n _

**Prompt: Stay Down!**

" _ Actually _ ," Malcolm whispered. "Did you know that most shooters fit into the manic depressive--?"

"Bright," Dani glared back at him. "Stop talking."

Malcolm's mouth snapped shut. He stayed behind her, his hands out at his side, as if a glock were supposed to be there. Dani had her weapon out and raised as she inched down the precinct hallway, straining to hear the shooters in the lobby.

She and Malcolm were lucky. Had JT not demanded they "go print the damn papers" themselves, all units would have been swept up in the hostage situation. Though, she wasn't sure what one pistol and one profiler could do.

As if reading her mind, Malcolm said, "I can take down the closest guy. You shoot the far ones."

"We don't even know the situation," Dani said. They were reaching the elbow of the hall. The screaming shooters were audible, now, demanding money and a release of weapons taken into evidence two days ago. She rounded the corner, glancing back at Malcolm. "Let's just see--"

"Dani!"

Malcolm's cry had her whipping around in time to see a pistol aimed at her. She jerked reflexively. Her weight was thrown back as a pop of gunfire ripped through her ears, bullets embedding in the wall.

She would have died. Two straight through her chest.

Dani whipped around to Malcolm's wide eyes. "Stay down!" She spun on her knees before their shooter could get the better of them, firing a bullet through his sternum as his weapon raised for them.

More shouting echoed from down the hall.

Dani sighed.

So much for a surprise counter-attack.

* * *

_ Nineteen _

**Prompt: My Kid Is In There**

"Lieutenant Gil Arroyo, NYPD," Gil flashed his badge, praying to god the woman wouldn't see his shaking fingers. His pulse swelled in his throat, choking him, and he could barely blink the tears from his eyes as the nurse glanced him over from behind the compact registration desk.

After an insufferably long moment, she asked, "How can I help you, lieutenant."

"Malcolm Bright." He struggled to keep his voice steady. "I-I need to see Malcolm Bright."

After a bit of clacking on the keyboard, she frowned. "We have no Malcolm Bright in file. Though, there was a John Doe that came in ten minutes--"

"That's him." Gil rushed. "That's--I need to see him." His voice was breaking under the pressure, under the fear, under the cold realization that, if he hadn't called that ambulance when he had, Malcolm could have been dead.

He may  _ be _ dead.

"Sir, he's still in surgery. It looks like…" More tapping on the keyboard echoed in Gil's ears, still pounding from the adrenaline of anticipation. "He had one laceration from wrist to elbow…" Her voice trailed off, words dying on the tip of her tongue as she glanced up at Gil. "What, um, is your relation to the patient?"

"He...He's my son…" Gil choked on tears. "That's--My kid is in there. Please, I…I need to  _ see him. _ "

"He's still in surgery." the nurse repeated solemnly. "Please have a seat. We'll call you when we have more information."

Gil floated towards the chairs in the waiting room, sagging heavily into the cushions. People walked by, all blurs of color and nothingness as his mind peeled away and left him disassociating and cold for what seemed like hours. Like days. Like  _ years. _

That was, until a man in scrubs approached him, clipboard in hand and voice quiet, and said, "Father of Malcolm Bright?"

* * *

_ Twenty _

**Prompt: Hoarse**

"...And on a scale of one-to-one, how much does it hurt?"

The doctor probed her fingers under Malcolm's jaw, pushing at his throat. He winced, blinking from the pain, and held up six fingers.

She hummed. "And have you gotten your flu shot?"

Malcolm frowned. He couldn't remember the last time he had to go to an actual doctor for a flu shot and check-ups. The FBI had always provided what the agents needed, and for free. Slowly, he shook his head. Sharp pain ripped up his neck. His whole body ached at the joints, feeling too hot and too cold at the same time.

"So, you haven't?" she clarified.

Malcolm croaked, "No…"

"Okay." She slipped behind him, opening a drawer. "Let's do that, then."

He huffed, hanging his head. "Sure…" Whatever was affecting him had ripped up his voice, shredding his monosyllabic words into pitiful squeaks. "Thanks."

"No problem, hon." She stepped in front of him, at his side from where he slouched on the examination table. Malcolm wrestled himself out of his suit jacket and opened his shirt to free the skin of his upper arm.

The needle wasn't huge, but it  _ was _ treacherous nonetheless, the tip glinting in the fluorescent lights. The doctor swabbed the area and said, "Slight pinch."

Malcolm turned away with a grimace.

The medicine burned, his whole arm numbing and burning from the site. He ground his teeth. So much for 'slight pinch'.

She tossed the needle into the biohazard can and turned to him. "You just have a cold, hon. Go home, sleep, and if it gets worse, come back in. Okay?"

Malcolm bobbed his head in a half-hearted nod. He fixed his clothes and slipped out of the doctor's office, coming face to face with Gil's quizzical expression. "So?"

"Cold." he rasped.

Gil hummed. "Sure doesn't sound like it, huh?"

"Or  _ feel _ like it…" Malcolm whined. He rubbed his throat, hissing at the shoots of pain.

* * *

_ Twenty-One _

**Prompt: Dread**

"Malcolm!" Heat kicked up around Gil, bruising his skin as he shielded his eyes from the falling debris. Flames swallowed the precinct in chunks, crawling up the walls and over the ceiling, everything bathed in a smokey orange glow. Coughing, Gil shouted, "Malcolm!"

"Gil!"

He flipped around to Dani's voice. She rushed forward, clinging to his arm and forcibly dragging him towards the precinct doors. "We need to go, Gil. We need to go!"

"Where's Bright?" Gil choked.

Over the roar of the flames, he could barely hear her. "I don't know!" She draped his arm across her shoulders and hauled him near the doors. Outside, the fire department was just pulling up.

Some asshole had set their  _ whole precinct  _ on fire - a molotov - that had enveloped them within minutes. Before, Gil had told Malcolm to print something out. He had snapped, " _ Kid _ , just go. Print it. Yes?"

And Malcolm had.

Now, he may be dead because of Gil's order. He may have not been able to get out, cornered in the back rooms with the flames. Gil's stomach wrenched impossibly tight. His heart plummeted to his gut and he doubled over as they busted through the front doors.

Nothing had come up. He wheezed, folding over, letting Dani steer him towards an ambulance. "Malcolm...Wh-Where's…?"

An EMT tried to strap an oxygen mask over Gil's face. Gil ripped away from his grip, screaming out, " _ Malcolm! _ "

"Gil!"

He and Dani whipped around to a very disheveled, very soot-stained Malcolm, his eyes blazing blue around the blackened tar scrubbed over his face. "Dani! Gil! Where's JT?"

Malcolm stumbled forward, breathing hard.

Dani mumbled, "He's fine. Left a few minutes before the...the fire. Are you okay?"

Before Malcolm could answer, Gil was up and pulling him into a crushing hug. His kid choked at the sudden and forceful contact, tensing.

"You okay, Bright?" Gil asked, inching back to look Malcolm in the eyes.

Malcolm nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

* * *

_ Twenty-Two _

**Prompt: Thankless**

"When's Dani's birthday?"

JT glared over at him. He folded his arms across his chest. "Why?"

"Because," Malcolm shrugged. "I can get her something...nice? For her birthday…"

"You're her coworker…" JT said. At Malcolm's silence, he clarified, "Isn't that a bit, I don't know...intimate? Personal?"

Malcolm sighed. He turned back to the whit,eboard with a frown. He fiddled with the marker, glancing over the evidence again, and again, not really reading no matter how hard he tried. JT had gone back to his paperwork, the shuffling behind Malcolm consistent and quick. He heard JT's pen tap a few times, then lift, and Malcolm spun around.

"Okay, it's just…" JT looked up from his work once again. He raised his eyebrow, his expression otherwise flat. "Like, I just...I want to do something nice for her. Show her I...care."

"You 'care'?" JT asked.

Malcolm's face heated. He tugged at his tie. "Well...I mean, I--Like I just...uh, I wanted to... _ because she _ …"

JT held up his hand, cutting Malcolm off. "Stop. Think. Make it count."

Nodding, Malcolm took a deep breath. He hadn't realized his hands were shaking until he glanced down, his fingers trembling, breaths quick.

Why was it  _ so damn hard _ to say?

"I...I appreciate what she's done. For me. For...everything here." Malcolm said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I just want to show that."

JT hummed. "Why?"

Malcolm scoffed. "I'm not  _ ungrateful. _ She's saved my life a few times--"

"We all have." JT snorted.

Malcolm mumbled, "I mean it."

"Okay, okay, man." JT nodded. "April seventh. Wish her all the happy birthdays you want, just don't tell her I'm the one who told you. She'd come after my ass."


	10. Upturned

_one._

“ _Bright!_ ”

In a breath, Malcolm flipped heels over head, cracking over the hood of a car before colliding down onto the pavement. JT scrabbled to his feet, ears ringing and legs rock-heavy. The blast had left him reeling, stumbling sideways as he struggled to right himself and get to Malcolm. Malcolm, who was unfathomably still despite the glowing, smoldering building mere feet away. Black smoke and bright orange flames razed the abandoned building. The explosion left glass crunching under JT’s boots.

JT flinched at the heat, ignoring the pain pounding through his temples as he dropped next to Malcolm. “Dude, you _better_ be alive--” He peeled Malcolm off the pavement, hauling him into his lap. “Bro, you with me?”

Malcolm’s eyes fluttered open. The sight of two asymmetrically dilated pupils dropped JT’s heart into his stomach. Malcolm mumbled, “H...ey, J-JT.”

“Hey, man,” JT swore. “That’s nasty.” He stared at the ragged flap of skin pulled from Malcolm’s hairline, bleeding sluggishly. And, after Malcolm shifted, JT could feel where wet heat stuck his pant leg to his skin. He carefully moved to cradle Malcolm’s skull, frowning at the gummy blood that was glueing his hairs together. “Shit, bro. We’ve got to get you to the hospital…” 

“Wha’...’appened?” Malcolm asked, voice barely louder than the roar of the flames.

JT gestured to the building. “Bomb.” When Malcolm began to squirm upright, JT planted one hand flat on Malcolm’s chest. Underneath his palm, Malcolm’s heart hammered hard, a franti thrumming that reminded JT that the guy _was_ alive, and that he wasn’t just concussed and hallucinating it all.

He thought, for sure, that Malcolm was dead. JT had only a split second to scream out for Malcolm before the ground shook, the air split, and the explosion was throttling them to the asphalt. He had considered himself fortunate enough that he was far away, had considered himself fortunate enough that he had the reflexes to duck for cover. But Malcolm had been thrown like a ragdoll kitten, ruining a car parked up against the curb on his way down. JT was sure that, for a moment, everything had seemed to stop, with Malcolm’s name still sharp on his tongue. He was sure that, for _just_ a moment, Malcolm Bright was dead and JT was going to have to explain to Gil that his son had died.

But then he had shifted, just barely. Or, perhaps, it _was_ all in JT’s head. Regardless, JT had hit the ground running.

Malcolm always had the worst of luck, it seemed, but he somehow was able to survive it all.

Like a cockroach, JT figured.

Malcolm’s hands flew up to his forehead, dazedly wiping at the blood that had pooled in the corner of his eye. He blinked his eyelashes apart. “‘M...I bleed’n’?”

“Let me see, man, let me see.” JT batted away Malcolm’s probing fingers. “Damn, it’s not slowing down.” He twisted to rip at the seam of his shirt, straining to tear the fabric with his stressed muscles. JT felt clumsy, his fingers numb yet hyper-aware of the scratch of the cotton-polyester blend of his tee, of the soot blackening his fingerpads, of how a little bit darker of soot, and he would be able to give his prints. But that didn’t matter, not when Malcolm was bleeding, but he couldn’t seem to think of much else aside from that.

The fabric ripped free.

The building wheezed, and a plume of smoke and heat heaved out through the shattered windows as the upper floors seemed to drop to ground. JT draped himself over Malcolm, cradling him closer to his chest as the building spit splinters of wood and rubble at them. Malcolm flopped in JT’s hold, struggling to clap his hands over his ears, whining at crashing sounds.

JT jerked upright. “We’ve got to go.” He fumbled for his cloth strip, gingerly pressing it to the wound at Malcolm’s forehead. The entire side of the guy’s face was painted in thick blood, a stark contrast to his pale skin and fiery bluegreen eyes. JT scanned him over, not liking their chances. “Can you walk?” he asked.

Malcolm looked as if he were going to vomit. “H-How bad?” He swallowed thickly. “I-Is ‘t bad? C-C’n’t be...be _that_ bad…”

“Well it ain’t _good_ , man.” JT scoffed. Distantly, he could hear sirens wailing. He pleaded that they were for them. While the street was mostly abandoned buildings left for gentrification, JT still had hope someone called about a four-story ex-motel being engulfed in flames.

JT glanced over his shoulder for the SUV. It was still safely tucked around the corner, untouched by the explosion. He turned back to Malcolm and, without preamble, began to maneuver them. “I’m going to carry you. Give me your hands.” Malcolm complied, albeit sloppily. JT draped the guy’s stick-thick arms over his shoulders and leaned forward to take his weight.

Somehow, JT narrowly avoided face-planted himself, a wave of dizziness rippling through him in a hazy exhaustion. He struggled to stand up from his half-crouched position. Malcolm was a toothpick, scrawny and short and every person’s _dream_ to carry should they ever _need_ to carry someone. But as he hauled them up to stand, with Malcolm completely limp against his back, JT was finding difficulty in taking every step. Each one lead as if there was steel lining the bottoms of his shoes, as if Malcolm weighed hundreds of pounds.

“Hang on, Bright.” JT staggered across the road. “Just hang on, man.” The SUV was just around the corner, taunting JT. He growled out, “Don’t pass out, man. You with me?”

Malcolm mumbled something unintelligible.

JT said, “H-Hey! Tell me, uh...tell me about...uh--”

“Did…” Malcolm began, his voice a thick whisper. “D-Didja know th’t...b-budgies...c’n’t eat...just seeds?”

They rounded the corner and JT got them to the hood of the car. He carefully eased himself to a kneel, slipping Malcolm off his back and leaning him against the tire. Spinning around, he found Malcolm’s face half-coated in his own blood, soaking down his neck and through his suit’s collar and jacket, the starch-white shirt bright and the navy blue coat black, nearly as black as Malcolm’s right eye, where his pupil swallowed most of the color. JT pushed himself to stand, swaying hard but fishing for his keys nonetheless to wrench the door open. He doubted Malcolm was coherent, but for the sake of soothing his own sanity, he asked, “Oh yeah? What’s that mean, man?”

Malcolm hummed. He knocked his knees together and they both tipped leftwards, nearly sending him sprawling. “‘S means...th’t I…’m not--...feed’n’...’r fruit…”

“Bright?” JT flicked on the radio. “Just hang on, man. Just hang on.”

Malcolm wheezed, “Ha-Hangin’ ‘n…”

* * *

_two._

Malcolm, Dani, and JT stared up at the scarf fluttering in the wind, twice-wrapped around one of the metal rails of the balcony above. Their evidence laughed at them , waving as the wind picked up and threatened to tear it away and down the block.

Waiting for the scarf to come loose was risky, as the street was busy and packed with people. Anyone could touch it and deface its worth in court. But, on the other hand, waiting for the apartment balcony’s owners to return home could take hours. Obtaining a warrant would be embarrassing, and surely would leave all three of them with, at best, a slap on the wrist, and at worst, reprimanded for being so clumsy. It was something JT was _positive_ he didn’t want on his track record, and he could safely say the same for Dani. Malcolm was a toss up, since the guy usually did stupid shit, but even _this_ was far from his wheelehouse.

In short, they were fucked.

Dani chewed her gum dejectedly, squinting up with her hands on her hips, the cogs turning in her mind, perhaps. Or perhaps she was zoning out as the realization of their combined stupidity. JT knew that’s what _he_ was going. He stood, arms crossed and gaze blank, staring up at the scarf.

Between them, Malcolm suggested, “Or! A ladder. We could grab a ladder.”

“From where, genius?” Dani didn’t break eye-contact with the scarf.

Malcolm fidgeted next to him. “I could call my driver and...he could pick one up? Or, maybe, someone here’s willing to lend us one?”

“You want to ask someone?” Dani mumbled. “It’d be something like, ‘Oh, hey, sorry sir, I know we’re in upscale Brooklyn Heights, but do you perhaps have a random ten-foot ladder I could borrow?’” She didn’t bother to mimick Malcolm’s voice as she talked, completely monotonous. “‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m just an NYPD consultant with no badge. You can trust me.’ Yeah, right, that’ll work great.”

Malcolm scowled, “ _You’d_ come with me, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Dani roller her eyes.

After another agonizing moment of stewing in awkward silence, JT grumbled, “You shouldn’t have dropped the evidence.”

“And _you_ shouldn’t have _scared me!_ ” Malcolm whipped around to face him. He was still wearing the purple gloves from the crime scene, the popping color odd against his dark suit. “Who _does_ that, anyways? You always pull pranks at crime scenes?”

“It’s April _Fools_ , man. And I didn’t think you’d _toss_ the evidence.” JT gestured up to the scarf.

Malcolm’s eyes snapped up at the balcony, then down at JT as he spat, “I didn’t _toss_ it. You _scared_ me!”

Above, the scarf had somehow managed to wrap a third time around the railing. JT figured that, _if_ they ever got it down, the little bit of blood that had been left behind was likely smudged all over the goddamn balcony post. Their little kerfuffle could be completely pointless. Their entire argument and, ultimately, their time standing around twiddling their thumbs could be completely unfounded.

That being said, Malcolm _was_ stubborn.

“Lift me up!” Malcolm practically shouted out.

Dani raised her eyebrow. JT recoiled at the thought. “What?”

“Lift me up! Lift me! I-I can reach! Or,” He turned. “Dani? Did you want to--”

She held up her hand. “ _No._ ”

Malcolm spun back to JT. “Let me on your shoulders! I’ll grab it!” He held up his hands. “I still got gloves on! Come on!”

JT took a deep breath, staring down at Malcolm’s very-serious expression. He sighed through his nose. Malcolm shifted in the silence, squirming impatiently. Eventually, Dani said, “I’ll just...go get Gil. See what he wants to do.” She turned on her heel.

Malcolm inched a bit closer. “Come _on_ , JT. I can grab it!” He seemed to wilt, then, a vulnerability cracking his stoic facade. He hissed, “I fuck up enough as is, JT. I can’t even _sleep_ right but, i-if I can grab this? Avoid Gil being... _once again_ mad at me, then...I want to try!”

It almost hurt, the way Malcolm was pleading. While Gil treated Malcolm as his kid, and had always seemed to go soft for him, it was strange to see Malcolm almost oblivious to that. JT had figured Malcolm did his stupid shit because he had known Gil would forgive him. He would forgive and forget and continue to let Malcolm do what Malcolm did best: solve crimes, cause problems.

But Malcolm didn’t seem to see that.

With that confession, JT realized that Malcolm saw himself as the ever existent thorn in Gil’s side. He was a nightmare to be endured, not a _son_ , but a _pawn_ that was never in the right place.

As if _Malcolm_ could be a pawn to Gil…

“Come on, JT!” Malcolm was practically vibrating with tension. “I can _reach it_ , come on!”

“Fine.”

He’d humor the guy.

Malcolm lit up. “Awesome! Uh, okay, uh…do you want me to…?”

JT crouched low, lower than he ever would want to in broad daylight on a sidewalk but Malcolm moved fast, scrambling behind JT and swinging his legs over JT’s shoulders. He steadied on his tiptoes. JT asked, “You all set?” He clamped his hands down on Malcolm’s thighs.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.” 

JT pushed them both up, his thighs burning as he hauled Malcolm’s weight. Turning away from the stares and snickers, JT headed for the balcony, praying that Malcolm’s tiny arm could reach their evidence. It was difficult balancing the guy, as he shifted and stretched for the scarf and JT’s back was beginning to ache. “Come on, dude, let’s pick up the pace.” he growled. “You ain’t exactly light.”

“Thanks,” Malcolm said, voice pinched with strain. “I’ve been working out more.” He moved forward again, guiding JT with him. “Actually, I found this new yoga routine. It’s supposed to do wonders for your core, _if_ you’re interested.”

JT tried to balance with a wider stance, his feet a foot apart and knees locked against Malcolm’s wiggling. “Dude…” he mumbled. “I ain’t a yoga kind-of guy.”

“Really…?” Malcolm asked, but he only sounded half-interested, or perhaps even less as he squeaked out, “A-Almost got...it…” JT felt him stretching, practically leaning on the back of his neck to reach the stupid fucking scarf and, for a brief second, JT began to think that it was all for nothing. That he had a grown-ass thirty-something on his shoulders for _no goddamn reason_ but then Malcolm shouted out, “I got it!”

Sighing, JT slowly began to move to a kneel to let Malcolm gently to the floor.

Malcolm said, “Dani! Gil! Look! I got it! See? No need to have a whole--”

JT dropped him. Malcolm stumbled to the pavement, skipping a few steps to avoid face-planting. He whipped around, mouth open to attack before Gil clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Bright.” With one gloved hand, Gil plucked the scarf from Malcolm’s grasp and, with the other hand on his neck, he began guiding Malcolm forward. He said over his shoulder to Dani and JT, “Now, _please_ , no more losing the evidence?” He glared down at Malcolm. “ _Please?_ ”

Malcolm began talking, mouth moving a-mile-a-minute as he and Gil went on ahead. Dani fell into step next to JT. She nudged his arm with a smile on her face. “So...that looked fun.”

“Don’t.” JT walked a little faster.

* * *

  
_three._

“You want a _Whitly_ on the case? As in a child of doctor-Martin-Whitly-also-known-as-the-Surgeon kind-of Whitly, right?” Frederickson rubbed his temples. “Arroyo, I respect you, _and_ your team, but _really?_ You’re working with _him?_ ”

Gil looked as peeved as JT felt. His skin crawled at the sneering sight of Frederickson, the toxic spew coming from his mouth only deepening JT’s disgust. The three of them hovered between Malcolm and Frederickson, the elderly man eyeing Malcolm from between Gil and JT’s shoulders. Dani folded her arms across her chest, foot tapping hard.

Gil said, with anger smoothed into a soft tone, “Malcolm _Bright_ is a consultant with the NYPD’s Major Crimes Unit and, therefore, we will _consult_ our _consultant_ , Frederickson.” He clapped his hands together. “And, since you’re not a unit of MCU, you’re not actually _required_ to be here.”

“Ah, ah,” Frederickson wagged his wrinkled finger. “This is _my_ jurisdiction, Arroyo. _My_ precinct’s rule.”

Gil folded his arms across his chest. “Great. Then _your_ jurisdiction, and _my_ team, can work together peacefully, yes?”

Frederickson nodded shallowly. “Sure, Arroyo. Sure.”

JT watched the man with narrowed eyes, glaring as he disappeared to consult with his own team. Gil ushered him, Dani, and Malcolm closer. “Look, I know this isn’t... _ideal_. But we’ve got a body. We’ve got a crime. And we’ve got a killer to catch. So let’s keep our heads level, yes?”

Dnai nodded. JT hummed. Malcolm bowed his head.

Gil raised his eyebrows. “Bright? You good with that?”

“Yeah.” Malcolm murmured. “I’m...all set.” He peered past Gil. “That the body?”

They dispersed, weaving around the upturned furniture to approach the victim. Cameron Heitzmann, age fifty-four, unmarried, but rich and living in a Manhattan penthouse off of wealth in stocks. JT had read the file while in the car, but the man defied the image he was picturing. If he were honest, he had imagined a taller, bulkier, older version of Malcolm, with the crisp-cut suit and hair smoothed by gel. But the man was caught at a vulnerable time, it appeared, wearing nothing but sweatpants, his hair frizzed, his beard unshaven.

Sun bled through the large windows that overtook the entire living room, bright rays inching across the carpet as dawn rushed towards daylight. The yellow-orange hue made Heitzmann’s blood glitter like liquid gold, the puddle around his head making a wreath of fire.

“This wasn’t planned.” Malcolm said. He gestured absently to the overturned decor, then to the body. “This was sloppy. A crime of passion, in the heat of the moment.”

From the corner of JT’s eye, he saw Frederickson and his team circling them like sharks, their eyes leaping between the body and Malcolm. JT shuffled a bit closer to Malcolm’s side, puffing his chest as he half-listened to the profile, half-watched Frederickson’s shuffling.

“This may have been their first kill. It may be their _only_ kill but, judging by the wounds on the victim, I doubt it’ll be their last.” Malcolm crouched down next to Heitzmann’s head. “It looks...as if his skull was...smashed in. Overkill. And a brutal one, at that. That, paired with what looks to be strangulation marks around the neck...I’d say we’re looking for an intimidating man. Tall, strong, able to take down another grown man. And the overkill...it suggests an explosive temper. Possibly a sociopath, but it’s hard to tell.”

He glanced up to Gil. “Where’s Edrisa?”

Before he could answer, Frederickson cooed, “She’s not coming.” He shrugged loosely. “Since the body’s zoned for _our_ precinct, I insisted _our_ ME checks it out.” His gaze fell to Malcolm, following him as he stood upright. “So, your profile is...what? Half baked, then?”

“Inconclusive.” Malcolm corrected blankly. “I’ll need more evidence and time.”

“Right. But,” Frederickson picked at his fingernails. “Shouldn’t you have this down-pat?”

Malcolm frowned. “Excuse me?”

“This whole...profiling thing.” Frederickson thrummed his fingers over one another. He nodded to Heitzmann’s body and said, “What with your old man being a serial killer, I would have thought this shit came naturally to you.”

Gil stepped forward. “ _Frederickson._ Where’s your ME?”

“On her way, Arroyo.” Frederickson walked closer as well, closing the distance between himself and Malcolm. “You know, I worked the Surgeon’s cases. All of them. Every single victim. Back when I worked Major Crimes.”

JT breathed in deep.

He had suspected there was a history between Gil and Frederickson, what with the tension, the snippy remarks, or the somewhat causal speech. If Gil had been his subordinate during the Surgeon’s reign, it would explain his disgust for a Whitly, a distrust in Gil, _and_ his passion for the Surgeon’s cases. However, the mystery still remained for JT: how, exactly, did Frederickson _know_ Malcolm was born Whitly.

It wasn’t exactly public knowledge. Even the fan forums Edrisa had always gushed about titled and acknowledged him as Bright, not Whitly. All of his legal documents had been changed, and Gil had made sure he and Dani had kept quiet after his sloppy confession to Carter Burkhead. And, the few officers that _had_ found out were quickly hushed by Gil so as to avoid spreading unnecessary rumors. The guy was odd, but Malcolm had always done his job well. JT knew that Gil planned to keep that pride and integrity intact.

“You know, Whitly,” Frederickson shook his head dramatically slow. “I still see them. Those people your old man murdered.”

Malcolm shrank a bit beside him. He croaked out, “Me too.”

“I don’t think you do.” Frederickson snapped. His team’s glares shifted at his sharp tone, turning away to busy themselves. “I don’t think you know what those cases _did_ to me. What your _father_ did to me.”

“Let me guess…” Malcolm’s expression was unreadable, a face of complete passivity. “He ruined you. Broke you. You lost everything because of him.”

“I did. I _really_ did.” Frederickson took another step closer. Gil straightened his shoulders. If JT were any sane man, he’d figure Gil was squaring up for a fight. He only hoped it didn’t come to that but, with how Frederickson was advancing on Malcolm - Malcolm, who was doing nothing to defend himself - JT was ready to throw a punch should he need to. He kept his gaze trained on Frederickson as he sauntered into their space. He spat, “ _So_ , Mr. Whitly, if you would please, do your job. Profile my killer. That would be all.”

“And as I’ve said,” Malcolm cocked his head. “It’s inconclusive. There isn’t enough evidence. And I haven’t had enough time.” Pressed to the sides of his legs, JT could see Malcolm’s hands beginning to twitch, a tremor rattling up his spine. He shivered involuntarily.

Frederickson nodded. “Right. Right. More time. More evidence. Sounds like you _want_ another body, Whitly--”

“It’s _Bright._ ” Malcolm hissed. “My name is Malcolm _Bright_ . And I don’t _want_ another body, but I _need evidence._ ” 

“If you weren’t a goddamn sociopath like your daddy, maybe you’d try and solve this case _now--!_ ” Frederickson was caught off by Gil.

“Enough!” Gil shouted, a hand up between Malcolm and Frederickson. His glare never left the older man. “That’s enough. Dani, JT, _cooperate_ with Frederickson’s team and get their evidence. Malcolm, to the car.” JT moved to obey, glancing over the scene one last time before following Dani.

Malcolm was slinking past Gil, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Frederickson said, “Go back to your daddy…”

JT was halfway down the hallway where Frederickson’s detectives were when he heard a raw scream rip from Malcolm’s throat. He heard a thud, a crash, all further commotion drowned out by shouting as he rushed in to Gil trying to pry Malcolm off of Frederickson.

The guy was small, but he seemed _strong_ , or at least _determined_ as he cried out, straddling Frederickson with a wild fire burning in his eyes. Gil was the only thing keeping Malcolm’s white-knuckled fists from breaking Frederickson’s nose and teeth.

JT surged forward, quickly throwing his arms around Malcolm’s middle and hauling him upright. He popped off of Frederickson’s lap with ease, kicking and cursing but never once clipping JT in the crossfire. JT kept his hold and twisted, aiming them towards the door.

“Let me-- _Fuck_ , let me _go_ , JT!” Malcolm wrestled from JT’s hold, his feet skidding the floor as JT rushed as quickly as he could for the door. He wasn’t about to bet that Malcolm was levelheaded again, and wasn’t going to pay for it if Malcolm dodged JT and tackled Frederickson to the floor once again.

They reached the doorway when Malcolm wrangled himself free, stumbling a bit before stomping down the hallway. He skirted past Dani and around the other detectives and CSI, a burning tension left in his wake.

* * *

_four._

“All right, rookies!” JT clapped his hands together. “Who knows the fireman’s carry?”

The new cops all glanced at one another as a soft murmur rose in the room. JT’s expectations dropped into his stomach.

While new recruits weren’t necessarily _required_ to know much of anything useful upon first entering the precinct, JT had always _hoped_ that the academy trained them in more than just basic hand-to-hand combat, gun shooting, and looking intimidating. They needed skills that would _save lives_ , not just take them, in his opinion, but it was something that was severely disregarded in most academies, it seemed.

Hence, why he had insisted on teaching them crucial skills for saving lives.

JT was no expert, but he had saved dozens of people from dangerous situations. While the fire department handled most rescues from buildings, JT had prided himself on knowing a thing or two, and always preferred to pass that pride - and that skill - to new officers. Because who knew when they would need to carry someone to safety? Who knew when a semi-suicidal profiler would rush head-first into a burning building and need backup as quickly as possible?

Luckily, he had _yet_ to have to drag Malcolm out of a smoldering building. But he liked to be prepared.

“Let’s get a demonstration, then.” JT said.

The rookies all glanced around at once another quizzically.

JT pivoted on his heel and, with a hand outstretched, he called, “Bright? Want to help me, here?”

Stuffed into the corner of the gymnasium, realization dawned on Malcolm’s face. JT had asked him to follow him to the gym, but hadn’t explained why. Malcolm, being _Malcolm_ , had brought a goddamn _book_ to the gym, wearing his fancy suit and his snazzy shoes, completely unprepared. But JT wouldn’t want him any other way, because if he were going to drag Malcolm’s scrawny ass out of a building, it would likely be in those clothes and, possibly, with that book.

Malcolm snapped the book shut. “Sure…” he said.

JT wasn’t expecting it, but it was a welcomed surprise as Malcolm toed off his loafers and stepped onto the mat. It seemed his shoes added an inch-or-so, because JT felt himself looking further down as he said, “All right. Let’s do this. Bright, lay down.”

Malcolm perked an eyebrow at him but complied. He got to the floor and laid flat, his hands folded on his stomach and his expression blank with appeared boredom.

“Okay, rookies!” JT bellowed. “What’s the first step? Does anyone know? Take a guess!”

Silence echoed throughout the gymnasium.

JT forced himself to hide his disappointment in a deep sigh. He rubbed his hands together. “First step: get them in the right position. If they’re like this,” JT gestured to Malcolm. “Then they’re not ideal.” Crouching down, JT grabbed Malcolm’s shoulders and flipped him without warning. Malcolm brought his hands up to catch himself, but JT slapped them away. “ _Now_ , they’re in ideal position. You’ll want the person you’re carrying to be face-down.”

Malcolm looked unfathomably uncomfortable, now, his cheek hovering above the mat with a scowl. JT patted his shoulder. “Two seconds, bro, and you won’t have a face-full of nasty-ass gym floor.” He turned back to the rookies and said, “Next step: lift them up.”

He crouched in front of Malcolm’s head, hooking his arms underneath Malcolm’s shoulders. JT said, “Don’t move, dude.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Okay.”

JT hauled him up off the floor. Malcolm remained completely limp, sagging into JT’s chest. If it were possible, JT was willing to bed Malcolm was _trying_ to make himself somehow heavier, whether by willing or by some force of physics JT didn’t understand. Whatever the case, the guy was harder to hold up than in the past. That, and the small snicker on Malcolm’s lips told JT that, in fact, he _must_ have been doing something to make himself _feel_ heavier.

“From here,” He said above the new officers’ light chatter, slightly winded. “You’ll take the left arm,” He grabbed Malcolm’s wrist. “And draw it over your shoulders. Make sure to keep the weight off your back.”

Still boneless in his hold, JT eased Malcolm up off the floor and over his shoulders. He hooked an arm around Malcolm’s leg and wrist, holding them together, before doing a small twirl to show the rookies. “This is a fireman’s carry.” JT announced. Malcolm went with compliance, his free arm slapping JT in the back like a wet towel as JT slowed his spin.

JT tipped sideways and Malcolm slid off him abruptly, nearly knocking himself on his ass in the process. He stumbled a bit but rightened and began straightening his suit. JT asked, “Any questions?”

The new officers stayed quiet. JT nodded. “Good! Then it’s time to practice. Partner up and keep doing it until it’s muscle memory!”

They shuffled into their positions with one another and JT hummed, content. He folded his arms across his chest as he watched them work, rolling out a slight twinge in his back as he went.

“You good, old man?”

JT flipped around. “‘Old man’ what, now?”

“Ah, sorry…” Malcolm rubbed his lips together. He slid on his shiny loafers as he mumbled, “That must have been aloud. My bad.”

“What’d you do?” JT jutted his chin.

Malcolm shrugged. “I had a big breakfast.”

“Bullshit. We all know you photosynthesize.” JT said.

Malcolm barked out a laugh. He turned to JT with a smirk and fiddled with the button of his shirt, pulling it open to reveal a thick black vest underneath. “Dani said you’d be training the new cops on carrying.” He grinned. “Said you do it every year. And she said that, every year, you’ve made _her_ be your example. So...I decided to give you a run for your money.”

JT stepped forward and poked the vest. It didn’t give under his finger but, rather, his finger gave under it, bending a bit from pushing the plates underneath so hard. “Is this...a bulletproof vest?”

“An old model, yeah.” Malcolm nodded down at it. “Fits really well, though. They were going to trash it, since it’s like...twenty pounds.” He giggled. “It’s _really_ heavy.”

“No shit.” JT poked it again. His hand dipped under Malcolm’s shirt to grab at the collar of the vest and tug up. The balls of Malcolm’s feet lifted, his toes squeaking on the floor, before JT dropped him again. He whistled. “ _Damn_ , that _is_ heavy.”

Malcolm’s eyes lit up. “I _know_ , right?”

* * *

_five._

“I need a bus!” JT shouted into his comm. “Officer down! _Officer down_ , one-fortieth and Frederick-Douglas!” He gear was heavy as he ran to the edge of the tub and ripped Malcolm’s body up and out of it. Water sprayed up as JT yanked him out by the collar, splaying him flat on the concrete below. His wrists were still bound by zip-ties, the whole upper-half of his white dress shirt soaked, spots of pinkened blood dotting the material.

JT tapped his bruised cheek. “Bright? _Bright?_ ” He leaned over Malcolm, pressing two fingers under the guy’s jaw as his ear dropped to Malcolm’s chest.

No pulse.

No rise nor fall.

_Nothing_.

“Fuck!” JT folded his hands over Malcolm’s chest and pushed, hard, again and again, counting upwards in his head as he stared down at Malcolm’s body. At his _corpse_.

He was _dead._

Malcolm had been kidnapped six hours ago. He had been plucked off the streets after setting himself as bait, letting a group of armed terrorists snag him and scurry away. Gil, Dani, and JT had narrowed the borough down to a five-block radius from where the ransom call was coming in but, even with SWAT on their side, they had too far a radius to fan out.

JT had prayed that they’d find him.

And find him, he did.

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, _thirty_ \--” JT dipped, tilting Malcolm’s chin up as he went. He pinched his nose and sealed his lips over Malcolm’s. JT breathed out until it ached, then surged upright with a gasp. Repetition was key for cardiopulmonary resuscitation, JT knew, but he was already winded, already exhausted from running between building to building in search for Malcolm. He gulped another breath and went down, breathing. Nothing changed. Malcolm was still _dead_.

JT went back to compressions, counting aloud, not trusting his head to keep up. “One, two, three, four…”

The ransom call had come in only thirty minutes prior to his arrival. Fortunately, the terrorists had talked a _bit_ too long and had given too much, allowing them to triangulate a decent area. But unfortunately, JT wasn’t sure just how _long_ Malcolm had been sitting in that tub.

Had it been a few seconds?

Minutes?

_Hours?_

Did rigor mortis set in after three, or was it six? Would Malcolm even display that if he were waterlogged? Did water change how the body decomposed? It did, but how much so? JT couldn’t remember, he _couldn’t_ , though, because Malcolm still had a fighting chance.

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, _thirty_ \--”

He dropped again.

Two breaths.

Mouth-to-mouth.

Something he never thought he’d use in his life.

The statistics were all there, laid across every pamphlet, every test, spread across Google and websites alike. The chances of CPR working were slim. The chances of no complications were even more slim. The chances that Malcolm would recover, unscathed, and make it to the hospital in time to reverse any damages done were practically non existent.

JT’s hands gave as a sharp snap cracked throughout the building. He didn’t stop.

So much for unscathed…

“Come on, man, _come on_.” JT stopped at thirty - or was it thirty-one - and leaned in.

Malcolm jerked.

JT jumped back in time for Malcolm to spit a fountain of water, nearly coughing it back into his mouth if not for JT moving his head sideways. Malcolm wheezed, eyes still shut, his throat working to choke up water and vomit across the floor. JT pulled him away from the sick and into his lap.

“Hey, _hey_ , Bright?” JT felt sick at his stillness. His head lolled on his arm, neck unable to support him even as his eyes peeled open to thin, blue slivers. JT sagged. “Fuck. Oh man...Hey, you with me, man?”

Malcolm didn’t answer.

JT wasn’t sure if he was supposed to…

“It’s cool. It’s cool. I’ve got you.” Quickly, JT gathered Malcolm up into his arms. Malcolm didn’t bother to wrap his arms around JT’s neck, nor did he try to shift and make his weight easier. He let JT struggle to adjust, tucking Malcolm’s head against his shoulder as he slid one arm under his knees and the other around his back. “I’ve got you, man. Just keep breathing. That’s your only job, bro. Just keep breathing.”

Malcolm sagged into him as JT lifted him off the ground. He was cold, shivering hard, half-soaked and barely alive but he was _breathing_ and JT felt tears stinging his eyes at the sight. The sight of their drowned, wilted little profiler who was somehow _still_ alive.

  
The goddamn cockroach.

Outside, rain shushed JT’s rushing thoughts. It hit them hard and at an angle, water pouring down across the sidewalks in sheets. JT squinted through it for an ambulance, or for Gil or Dani, even. In the distance, he saw the fluttering red and blue through the haze and smiled. “Hey, man, they’re here! We’re good!” JT glanced down at Malcolm.

Malcolm’s eyes had slipped shut once again, completely unresponsive as JT shook him gently. His hair was plastered to his face, hiding some of the disgusting bruises blotting his cheeks and jaw. “Bright?” Malcolm’s head snapped back, off JT’s shoulder. “ _Please_ don’t be--”

“JT!”

Gil.

JT’s head snapped up. He hadn’t realized he’d been walking forward the entire time. Gil was running full-tilt, shouting something over his shoulder. He was completely soaked through as well, but a fire in his eyes warmed JT’s frigid body.

Gil looked _determined_ . Or perhaps, JT realized numbly, it wasn’t determination so much as _fear_.

Raw, cold fear at the sight of his son, limp in JT’s arms.

“ _Malcolm!_ ” Gil skidded to a stop in front of him, fitting his arms around Malcolm in place of JT’s. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him.” And JT had no doubt. Within a second, Malcolm was up and gone, out of JT’s arms, and the weightlessness he felt had him nearly dropping to the pavement. JT doubled over himself, breathing hard. He squinted through the fog to see Gil running up to meet paramedics, knowing he did everything he could to save Malcolm.

Now, they had to wait.

* * *

_plus one._

JT came to consciousness with a jarring jerk of his arm, feeling as if it were about to rip from its socket. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

He had forgotten where he was. Or why he was there.

What had happened?

Another sharp tug, and JT’s eyes flittered open. He came face-to-face with a crumbling ceiling, the beams snapping and concrete dusting across his face. He heard a ragged cough behind him, then another pull to his arm, and he dragged a few inches.

His body was lead, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. Pain that seemed to radiate from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. It confused JT as much as his being there did. Staring at a collapsing ceiling wasn’t helping him remember _where_ he was and _why_ he was there in the first place.

Another tug.

Another cough.

JT tilted his head back a bit. Bright light blinded him and he squinted, staring up at the upside-down figure of a very ruffled, very mud-caked Malcolm.

“Hey, JT!” Malcolm had both hands wrapped around JT’s wrist, his chest heaving as he dragged in air at an alarmingly quick rate. “G-Going to pull your weight, now? Because--” Malcolm dragged JT a little closer to the window of light, stopping to stagger and choke on dusty air. “ _Because_ I-I’m _really_ tired. And this ceiling is... _totally_ about to drop on us.” He shrugged. “ _Again._ ”

Again?

Flashes of memories smacked JT.

Sounds, mostly. Screaming. His name. Cries for help. Were there people in the building with them?

“B-Bright…” JT wasn’t sure if Malcolm had gone hard-of-hearing, or if he simply wasn’t loud enough, because Malcolm kept dragging, not responding at all. His attention was behind him, fixed on the light - the _doorway_ to outside - as his tongue darted to wet his dried lips, body trembling under JT’s weight.

It was commendable. If JT were more than half-conscious, he would have applauded Malcolm. He would have clapped him on the back and carried him the rest of the way as a luxurious thank-you gift. 

But JT couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe. And now, staring over at the upside-down Malcolm for so long, he felt _sick._

“I’ve got this…” Malcolm choked out. “We’re almost there.”

JT couldn’t _breathe_. He opened his mouth as wide as he could get it, but no air came in. His chest was burning, a deep fire that was all embers and ash and scalding him from his stomach up to his tongue. He kicked out a bit, but it must have been nothing more than a twitch of his toe because Malcolm had been completely undeterred, hauling JT as quick as his scrawny body would go.

The light was nearly deafening, somehow. As if light were a product of sound in JT’s jumbled mind. He could almost _hear_ it, hear it screaming at him as he squinted up at Malcolm. Malcolm seemed to be screaming too or, rather _Malcolm_ was screaming, _not_ the light.

As soon as JT slipped out into the rays, warmth heated his skin. Malcolm had changed tactics without JT noticing, it seemed, as he was pressed up against the bony chest and being dragged from under his arms From that angle, JT could see it.

See the _gaping holes_ in his chest.

Or, what _looked_ like gaping holes. Spots of black and red splattered his chest, the bones in his ribs all looking snapped and concave, not quite how they usually appeared. His leg looked crushed but JT couldn’t tell in his state of mind. All he could see was that he was _bleeding out_.

“ _Help!_ ” Malcolm’s shrill cry made JT wince. It was _right_ next to his ear. The guy lacked common courtesy, it seemed, to simply turn away.

But, no, JT remembered then that he was dying, and that Malcolm was trying to save his life. “Somebody! _Help me!_ ”

More hands came. More grips were given. And soon, JT was all the way out of the building and was onto the sidewalk, laid flat. People in masks hovered over him, talking but not to him. Behind him, he heard Malcolm say, “He’s my parter.”

“And what happened?” one of them asked.

Malcolm said, “Th-The building collapsed. He...He shoved me out of the way. He saved my life.”

How heroic.

JT could settle for that.

He let his eyes slip shut, content. As the paramedics jostled him onto a gurney and into the back of an ambulance, a presence warmed his palm, rubbing into the back of his hand. Echoing in his mind, JT heard Malcolm say, “Thank you, JT. Thank you.”


	11. Unfortunate

Malcolm was supposed to stay outside.

He was supposed to stay behind their barricade of police vehicles, safely trapped behind doors and tinted windows, waiting patiently. He was supposed to be practically wrapped in a bubble wrap of heavily armed SWAT while sitting on cushioned seats. He was supposed to be doing something stupid, like playing Candy Crush on his phone or calling his mother and doing rich people things.

He was supposed to be doing a lot of things. JT should have expected nothing less as Malcolm poked him on the shoulder, startling the shit out of him. Whipping around, JT scowled, "What the  _ hell _ are you doing here?" His eyes widened. "You ain't even wearing a vest, bro." 

Malcolm, in his slim-fit suit and fancy-ass shoes, smiled loosely up at JT and nodded his chin. "What've you got? Six? Seven people in there?"

Pressed snug against a warehouse, they were prepped to raid the place. While Major Crimes rarely dealt in ops meant for the ground runners, this crew, in particular, had drawn their attention. Armed robberies across the city had alerted the NYPD of their arrival early on, but when purse-snatching turned to aggressive brutalization of unarmed people ending in deaths, MC had to step in. And while JT hated to see Gil or Dani in the line of fire, he had to admit, he  _ missed _ the steady sensation that line-ups gave him.

The preparation. The sturdy structure. The trust. Everyone had their place, everyone knew their moves. As a soldier, he had counted on the man in front of him and the man behind him with his life, knowing they had it. And standing against the warehouse walls, inches from an open door to the mouth of a crime den, with Gil and Dani on the opposite side, JT had felt at peace. He knew they had his back, and he had his. The SWAT standing with him knew their jobs, they knew what to do.

Everyone had their place.

Except Malcolm.

"Dude, get back to the  _ car. _ " JT spat, nudging him in the arm. "You don't belong here. You're going to get  _ shot. _ "

"Is that a threat?" Malcolm wore something akin to hurt and shock, but it quickly faded to feigned pain as he dropped his hand over his heart. "JT, I'm hurt. I thought we were friends.

JT ground his teeth. " _ Dude-- _ "

"Relax." Malcolm held up his hands. "I was in the FBI, remember? I know what I'm--"

" _ Bright? _ " From across the opened doors, Gil blanched. He was half-hidden behind a SWAT officer, but his fear was clear as day to JT. "Wh--... _ What? _ " He snapped his mouth shut, his fingers fiddling on his glock.

JT could see the rage beginning to build in Gil's eyes. While the man couldn't yell across the clearing - should the alert their targets - he sure as hell looked like he  _ wanted  _ to. Gil jabbed a finger at JT, then behind him. JT turned around and mumbled, "Get your skinny ass back to the car."

"And what if I can talk them down?" Malcolm suggested. "What if I can get everyone out of here  _ alive? _ "

Malcolm knew as much as JT did: that was the ultimate goal. Not one life lost, on either side. Because people could change, and at the end of the day, JT knew that if he were inside the warehouse, he'd want a second chance, too.

If Malcolm could manage to spare all their lives, was it worth it?

"Sir, you can't be here."

JT glanced behind him. The remainder of the SWAT team was filling into place, plugging up the holes in their formation. Malcolm glanced up at the man in armor and nodded, "Ah, I--"

"He- _ llo? _ "

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. JT tensed. He pulled the safety off his gun as the melodic voice called out again, "Oh police officers! You know, you're not  _ that  _ sneaky!"

The SWAT officer manhandled Malcolm behind him and out of the way, leaving him stumbling and shocked.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" the voice cooed. "I've got a special guest with me! Come say hello!"

A young scream - female, a  _ child _ \- echoed out of the warehouse. Everyone paled. Gil leaned in to snap at the SWAT captain a few in front of him, his expression twisted as his whispered into the man's ear. Dani looked as if she wanted to vomit. 

JT froze up.

He wasn't sure  _ what _ to do. Calling a hostage negotiator down would take hours and they had  _ seconds, _ maybe minutes, if they were lucky. And even then, nothing was guaranteed…

"Okay!"

JT jumped. He flipped around at Malcolm's shout.

Malcolm was stepping forward slowly, wriggling his shaking hands at his side as he eyed JT, then Gil and Dani. One of the SWAT officers grabbed his arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm a profile with the NYPD. I'm the best you've got right now." Malcolm shrugged him off. The man grabbed him with his other hand and Malcolm scowled. " _ Let me _ \--"

The man inside sang, "Come on out, then! Or the girl's brains hit the pavement!"

Malcolm jogged forward, prying himself free and into the mouth of the opened warehouse doors before anyone could protest. From across the gap, Gil bore his teeth, moving as if he wanted to rush in and grab Malcolm.

But he knew what was on the line.

They all did.

A little girl. An innocent child.

"Hi!" Malcolm threw up his hands. "I'm unarmed. And just want to talk."

"Sure…" JT heard shuffling inside the warehouse. "Where're your friends?"

"Uh," Malcolm glanced up a bit, thinking. "Well, my friend from high school is...probably bored stiff at his insurance company. And, I did have a lot of friends on elementary school, but--"

"Do I look  _ stupid _ to you?" the man growled out.

Malcolm steeled, eyes sharp ahead of him. "No. You look  _ in control. _ " He licked his lips. "I was just trying to lighten the mood."

"And why's that?"

From the corner of JT's eye, he saw a sniper lining up on the roof opposite of them, his rifle glistening in the sunlight as he crouched low, walking to a steady position. JT stepped back and glanced around.

There were no windows into the warehouse. The large, opened door was the only viewpoint inside.

JT's veins went stiff and cold.

"Because," Malcolm began. "There's a little girl. And she's scared. And she doesn't belong here…"

Rushing to the lieutenant behind him, JT asked, "Where's that sniper going?" He pointed up to the low-crouching man.

The lieutenant said, "West of the doors. We can get one of the henchmen and catch them off guard."

"You're  _ shitting  _ me." JT jabbed his finger at Malcolm. "What about him?"

Pressing his lips into a line, the lieutenant said. "We'll try our best to get him out of the line of fire. But he...made his own decision. Our job is to save that hostage and clear the warehouse."

Malcolm continued, undisturbed by their conversation, "...Let me help you. We can work this out."

"How's that?" the man asked.

"You want something. I can help you. My name is Malcolm Bright, and I'm a hostage negotiator with the NYPD. You tell me what you want, and I tell you what I can give you. We'll come to an agreement, and everyone can leave here  _ alive. _ " Malcolm kept his head level and his shoulders straight, but JT could see his never-better shaky hand buzzing a mile a minute. Whether the guy was scared, or just…being himself, JT couldn't tell. His poker face was on and his gaze was hard, unwavering.

The man in the warehouse said, "All right. Let's talk…"

Malcolm took a step forward.

The sniper settled into place.

Someone inside screamed, " _ Sniper! _ "

And all hell broke loose.

Gil, Dani, and JY dropped as SWAT rushed in. Gunshots popped and deafened the field. Soldiers moved in as bullets rained out, the scurries of fugitives reverberating off the metal walls. Malcolm had jumped sideways fast enough to avoid the spray as JT yanked him backwards by his collar and held him tight.

From across the opening, Gil shouted, "You two all right?"

JT said, "Good!" He still had a hold on Malcolm's collar. Leaning in, he asked, "We're good, right?"

Malcolm nodded jerkily. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He brushed his hands over his now dust-sprayed suit with a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Good. Let's get out of here." JT spun around, bolstering his weapon as Gil and Dani did the same.

Malcolm said, "What about the little girl?"

The moment he said it, JT knew what would happen. In a split second, Malcolm bolted to his feet and into the warehouse, Gil's screams swallowed by a sudden uproar of gunfire. JT held his hand out and ordered, "Stay back, boss!" He ripped his gun back from its holster and dove in.

Conveniently, boxes littered the grounds of the warehouse, providing plenty of shelter. Malcolm was tucked against one, close to the door and completely in the sight of Gil and Dani, and JT sighed because at least the guy had  _ one _ brain cell dedicated to self preservation, it seemed.

JT dropped heavily next to him and poked his head up and around. The little girl was crouched nearby, luckily. It appeared if she had been running at just the right time, because she was tucked in-between two crates, her head covered and cheeks glittery with tears.

Unfortunately for them, she was closer to Gil and Dani's side, and the SWAT team was otherwise occupied.

"Dani! Gil!" JT shouted into his earpiece. Both their heads shot up. "The girl's near you. Ten feet! I'll give you the go!"

JT watched as the fight dispersed across the warehouse floor. They had  _ seriously  _ underestimated just how many assailants there were: alive, JT counted eleven more, cornered like rats, but rats with semi-automatics and plenty of rage.

There was a break in the fire, a split second of breath. JT screamed, "Go! Go!"

Dani and Gil dove in and ducked behind one of the crates the girl was wedged between. Gil wrangled her out with a hand clamped around her wrist and he dragged her against his chest, breathing hard. Dani sagged back against the boxes, her back to the warehouse wall, her hands shaking.

JT crowded closer to Malcolm, who had sunk as low as he could get. "Let's get out of here. We're no good--"

"JT!" Malcolm's eyes bugged.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and was yanked backwards, the wind knocked out of him and his gun sent flying. A man straddled his hips and began pounding, his punches fast and heavy and hurting as JT brought his arms up to guard his face.

JT couldn't see. All he could do was hear the fire, the shouts, the guns, the blood in his ears as bruises burned into his skin down to his muscles and everything began to throb and ache and  _ scream _ at him to fight back. He tried to throw a punch. It was sloppy. Weak. The man"s knuckles scraped JT's jaw, cracking his head sideways.

It was bad.

He could die.

JT tried to kick out. To grab him. To move.

The guy dropped. JT jolted upright, the body of the man sagging sideways as he threw himself up, breathless, staring up at an equally winded Malcolm. JT's glock was steady in his hands, his eyes darting between the man and JT before they settled and Malcolm smiled. "FBI, rememb--?"

Malcolm's head snapped forward as his chest rocketed back, the words punched from his lungs. A bullet hit him and he hit the pavement, graceless and limp, all within a heartbeat.

From across the warehouse, Gil was moving, was pushing the girl into Dani's arms and JT's hands flew out. He knew that if Gil tried to cross the distance, completely unsheltered, with only his gun, he'd die. He knew that  _ Gil knew _ only a moment later, when his eyes softened, as if saying, 'Thank you for saving my life.' And, a moment later, they warped into fear, saying, 'Now save my son.'

JT skid across the ground, getting to where Malcolm was sprawled on the floor. He was staring up and at nothing, blinking fast, breathing faster, his hands absently pulling and fiddling at the lapels of his suit as blood spread like a forest fire across the fibers of his dress shirt, staining from his right shoulder across his chest.

His voice was barely there as he mumbled, "JT…" Or perhaps he didn't say it, merely mouthing it, because JT couldn't hear anything over the sound of his own heart roaring in his ears. Even the gunfire sounded muted. Malcolm's eyes caught JT's, and they warped into a voiceless horror, all wide and blue and blinded by fear as he coughed and choked on nothing.

They needed shelter. JT knelt low over Malcolm, taking in the wound while scanning for a place to go.

The doors were too far now, but the crates offered nothing but more fire and the threat of field medicine JT didn't know how to do. SWAT was pushing the firefight back, but strays still spat out at them, leaving them glued to the ground. JT cursed under his breath.

"Hold on!" JT screamed over the fire. He glanced up at Gil, who had never stopped watching. Damn, JT wished he wasn't there, breathing down his neck. It was enough that his kid got shot, but now, JT was going to be watched like a hawk. He mumbled again, closer to Malcolm's ear. "Just hold on, man, I've got you."

Breathing out his apologies and prayers he wouldn't nick an artery or get shot as well, JT hooked his arms under Malcolm's and dragged, yanking him in bursts of pained energy. Malcolm jostled and cried out, voice cracking to silence halfway to the crates. His eyes had rolled up by the time they got there, a trail of streaky dark blood in their wake.

JT settled heavily against the boxes, winded, his ribs protesting every breath but he moved nonetheless, ripping open Malcolm's suit jacket and wrangling it off while he was still unconscious. The coat went with little resistance, Malcolm's limbs loose and body boneless for JT to work. He worked the buttons of his dress shirt and pulled off his tie, allowing him access to the wound.

No matter how many times JT had seen gunshots, they never ceased to disgust him. Rusty brown-red blood pulsed steadily from the wound, smearing over Malcolm's white skin and pooling in the dips and divots of his muscles and bones. The hole was in the meaty flesh of his shoulder, just above his armpit, and JT deflated. Infection was an option, but blood loss wasn't a definite.

Malcolm stirred. His head flopped sideways once, twice, and his eyes fluttered open. Instantly, they scrunched tight in agony as he opened his mouth in a silent groan.

"Hold on, man, just…" JT pressed his hand to the center of Malcolm's chest, pinning him still. "Give me a sec."

Wadding up Malcolm's jacket with his free hand, JT balled it and jammed it against the wound. Malcolm jumped and shrieked but JT held him fast. "Sorry, sorry. Know it hurts, man. Just give me a sec. This ain't pretty, bro."

"D…" Malcolm's voice sounded thick, diluted with hazy pain. "Did I...pass out?"

"Yeah, man." JT put pressure to the wound despite Malcolm's squirming. He dropped a leg over Malcolm's and shouted over the gunfire, "Probably because you're so scrawny. Got to eat more, man!"

Malcolm's lips quirked upright. His eyelids began to droop. "N-Noted!"

He was still bleeding, still edging towards losing consciousness, and JT scowled. If the bullet had gone through-and-through…

JT grabbed Malcolm's right shoulder and rolled him as gently as possible. Malcolm said something, something unintelligible, as JT's eyes landed on the oozing wound from the other side. 

"Damnit, man." JT ripped Malcolm's shirt the rest off the way free of his arm and chest, giving him enough access to press the free half of his suit jacket to his back. The bullet, it seemed, had curved up and into an upward trajectory, popping out somewhere closer to the nape of his neck than JT would have liked.

If it had been his left side, he had no doubt Malcolm would be dead.

"You're giving me a run for my money, dude!" JT chuckled sourly over the uproar. "Testing my field medicine in a time like this? Man, I haven't done this in years!" He quickly wrapped the jacket up and around Malcolm's shoulder, looping it as tight as it would go. He wrestled the tie up and began to wrap it, too.

Malcolm said, voice weaker, "K-Keep'ng you on...on y'r toes…" His sentence trailed off as JT tied the tie tight, likely cutting off circulation to his arm but, at the moment, if it  _ truly _ came down to it, JT would rather an armless-Malcolm over a corpse.

JT looked up at Gil. They were still pinned to the crate and the wall, unable to do anything but watch as JT tried to save Malcolm's life. Gil's hair was sticking upright in spots, no doubt where he fisted it while JT was stripping Malcolm down to bind his wound.

"Hey, man," He turned his attention back to Malcolm. "You with me still, man?"

Malcolm mumbled incoherently. With his good arm, he swiped out at nothing, weakly smacking JT in the arm.

Without thinking, JT grabbed Malcolm's hand. It was cold, and clammy, and unbelievably pale, as pale as the guy's face and only then did JT see the blood that had sprayed up under Malcolm's jaw, spritzed across his cheek, ending just under his eye. It was drying in his hair and the dark red contrast was a startle against his bright blue eyes. Eyes that danced, shaking with strain to stay awake.

JT smudged at the blood on Malcolm's face. "Hey, man, you've got to stay with me. All right? Stay with me?"

If it had just been a flesh wound, like JT had originally thought, he wouldn't be as worried. If it hadn't curved upwards into his body, possibly doing arterial damage, JT wouldn't have been as worried. But Malcolm was fading fast, his lips barely moving as he spoke to the air, his pulse thready and slow under JT's finger pads as he squeezed his hand tighter, his giant palm encompassing Malcolm's entire hand - fingers to wrist - and then, JT realized just how  _ small _ Malcolm was. He looked so much smaller when he was bleeding out.

"Bright, man, you've got to stay with me." JT hissed. "Talk to me, man. Talk to me."

He looked content, then.

Malcolm's stare fell to JT, and JT saw nothing but a readiness that he had only seen in dying men on the battlefield. He had seen that same look in the eyes of the eighteen year old boys that had faded away in the dust, their bodies blown to bits in the name of their country. He had seen that same look in the eyes of his grandfather as his sickness had finally consumed him. He had seen it, and he would always see it. It was a silent agreement, a wordless acknowledgement. It was a 'thank you' and a 'forgive me' wrapped in one. It was their final words, their final thoughts, all funneled into one stare. One look.

JT realized that Malcolm believed he was dying.

Who was JT to know whether he was or not?

"Stay with me." JT's hand move from the spatter on his face to the wound still oozing and Malcolm twisted away weakly. "I'm sorry, man. Just hang on. Just hang on, all right? You ain't dying here."

Malcolm's eyes rolled back. He went entirely slack as footsteps pounded around them and JT startled as Gil's hand clamped down on his shoulder.

JT glanced up.

They had surrendered. After shooting an uncounted amount of cops and nearly killing their consultant, the assholes had given up. Dani was ushering the little girl outside as JT's eyes fell from Gil back down to Malcolm.

Gil's hands were instantly smeared with blood, with  _ Malcolm's _ blood, just as his were. Gil pressed hard to the wound, but Malcolm didn't stir. He didn't even flinch. JT's stomach lodged up in his throat.

"Kid?  _ Bright? _ " Gil's fingers flew to Malcolm's throat. He counted a pulse silently before his face twisted and he said, "He doesn't have time."

JT fumbled to talk.

Gil didn't wait for an answer. In one movement, he had Malcolm up and cradled against his chest. Malcolm was all deadweight and pale skin in his arms, a slight frame that was still steadily bleeding out as his head lolled, his limbs flopped with Gil's clipped movements. Without hesitation, Gil hurried for the warehouse doors, screaming out, "I need a medic over here!  _ Now! _ " He hauled Malcolm higher and hugged him closer as he got outside and into the open world.

Gil moved past Dani. Past her stunned-still form. She looked away outside - to where Gil was presumably rushing Malcolm to an awaiting ambulance - and back to JT, her soft eyes sharp with fear. Her hands wrapped around his arm and he let her guide him to his feet.

Standing felt weird, felt odd, like a bullet would end up embedded in his back. He shuddered and stared down at his hands. They were sticky and red and smelled so sharply of blood, JT wanted to gag. He wanted to scrub them clean. He wanted to rip them off, if he had his way.

Malcolm wasn't even dead, but that expression…

...that look of resignation…

...he thought he would never see it again.

It terrified him. It reminded him, reminded him of the soldiers, the men, the  _ friends and family _ he had lost.

Dani's warm hands drew him back as she rubbed his arm and said, "Let's get out of here."

JT nodded numbly. "Yeah…okay…"


	12. Underhand

Everything felt warmer, and fuzzy at the tips. A heat smoothed throughout Malcolm’s limbs, tingling and soft, and he giggled at the sensation. The sweet and salty scents of junk food and cheap liquor swam over his tongue, and in the low light of the living room, he could make out the shapes of people relaxing into a similar alcohol-induced haze. Half of them were draped over one another, resting on sofas and chairs and sprawled on the floor, plastic cups within arm’s reach, eyes drifting to the wobbly Jenga tower set up on the coffee table.

The people Malcolm had come to the party with had all but vanished, possibly moving on to one of the many other houses hosting a spring break get-together. Or perhaps they went home. It  _ was _ past midnight, after all. In his stupor, Malcolm couldn’t find it in himself to care. He couldn’t care because he was floating. He was grounded where he sat on the floor, but he felt miles high above, drifting into a peacefulness that half a dozen prescriptions drugs and therapy could never bring him.

He, by no means, planned to become an alcoholic like his mother. But he could see the appeal. He could feel it in his fingertips, in his stomach, where the liquor made everything numb and hot. His problems were sterilized as the lemonade and coconut rum loosened him into pliancy. Malcolm deflated against the couch’s front, blinking heavily.

A woman shouted, “Whitly! It’s your turn!”

Malcolm slouched forward and nodded. He reached out with oddly steady hands, poking the blocks with his pinkies. One towards the middle of the tower nudged easily. Malcolm shimmied it out of its spot and flipped it, squinting at the blurry words underneath. “Everyone drinks once.” he said as he scooted a littler closer to the table, nearly knocking his cup over from where it rested in-between his legs, and planted the block on top of the stack.

He leaned back and took a slow swig of his drink. The alcohol heated his throat, a line of fire trailing from his tongue down into his stomach, and Malcolm hummed contently. His muscles relaxed further.

The girl next to him freed a particularly stubborn block. She fumbled to flip it and, after a moment of her struggling to read, she chuckled and said, “Make a rule.” She carefully settled the block on top of the tower and smiled, glancing over the people surrounding the table. “Okay...anyone who knocks the tower over has to strip.”

“How much?” someone asked.

She said, “Underwear.”

Malcolm pursed his lips. While he wasn’t necessarily so unbelievably desperate that he’d do anything to see one of these people in their underwear, the proposition didn’t turn him off, either. Distantly, he wondered if it was the alcohol talking, loosening his tongue  _ and  _ his thoughts at the same time as he whispered, “damn” without thinking. He shrugged to himself. Seeing one of the guys’ abs, or one of the girls’ legs wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen.

The game buzzed on and the tower teetered leftwards, dangerously so. The guy next to Malcolm reached out for his turn, snorting with laughter as some people booed him, while others chanted out, “strip, strip, strip!”

He was a tall and lean man - an upperclassmen, perhaps - with squared shoulders and toned arms underneath the tight long-sleeve he wore; Malcolm wouldn’t mind seeing him in boxer briefs, if only for a moment. And with the way he was grinning up at everyone, it seemed he wouldn’t mind, either. Slowly, the guy wrangled a block free and flipped it, chuckling out, “It’s blank.” He settled it on top of the tower.

Malcolm frowned, glancing over himself. He wasn’t exactly the most appealing person to see stripped down, what with noodle-y arms and scrawny legs, and barely any muscle definition whatsoever. One glance up confirmed his suspicions as he saw the woman directly across from him curl her lip and turn away.

Whatever.

The drinks had him rolling his eyes and shuffling forward to free a Jenga block from the tipping tower. He shifted onto his knees, tongue skirting his lips as he concentrated on shimmying out one of the tighter rectangles at the bottom. He tugged. The tower leaned. Malcolm inched a little closer. His jeans scraped against a particularly jagged scar across his shin, one that he had gotten over a decade ago when Ainsley had accidentally shoved him off his bike--

_ His scars. _

Malcolm froze.

His breath stilled in his chest as his eyes snapped up, searching the faces watching him with half-interest, half-alcohol-induced-exhaustion. Some guy shouted, “Come on, man! Get a move on!”

Malcolm breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, thoughts closed off for a blissful second as he gathered himself. The block was nearly out, but the tower was almost toppled. One wrong move, one shake of his still oddly stiff fingers would spell ‘oh fuck run as fast as humanly possible’ for him. While Malcolm didn’t necessarily want to  _ pride _ himself on being called a coward for his remaining years at Harvard, he didn’t want everyone at the party to see what he had done to himself. What decisions he had made in the middle of the night, waking from night terrors, or when struggling through a day. He was more than that and he had moved  _ past _ that. Had  _ healed _ . Hadn’t relapsed in over two years.

But he didn’t  _ want _ to move and risk it. He didn’t want to pull the block, only for false pretenses to settle in as the tower stayed standing. He didn’t want to place the rectangle on top and watch it clatter to the table.

Malcolm took a shaky breath. In one sharp movement, he yanked the block from its spot, a straight pull that left the tower protesting, but eventually stilling. Malcolm gasped for breath. He flipped the block. “Blank.” His voice cracked. Sweat beaded at his hairline. A cold breeze swept in from the opened screen door nearby. Malcolm shivered.

Step one was done.

Now, step two.

Hesitation would ruin him, he knew that. The anticipation hurt more than the doing, and so Malcolm quickly dropped the block on top of the tower and jerked backwards, tense. It wobbled frighteningly.

“Next!” someone shouted.

Malcolm sagged backwards.

His foot bumped the table. The sound of the blocks crashing to the wood startled him as they puddled into his lap, across the carpet, scattered over the tabletop. Screams erupted from the split second of deafening silence and Malcolm could only manage to mumble out, “Wait, what?”

“Strip!”

“Strip, Whitly!”

“Take it off!”

Malcolm’s stomach rose to his throat. He stumbled to his feet and swayed, fumbling back into the outstretched arms of the guy who he had been ogling over moments before. The guy smirked down at him. “Let me help you!” His hands grabbed for the hem of Malcolm’s sweater.

Someone whistled. The girls crowded into one armchair began hooting. Malcolm went rigid. “Wait--!”

He hoisted the sweater halfway up Malcolm’s stomach before Malcolm’s brain caught on. He caught the guy’s wrists, shouting out, “Stop!” But his voice was swallowed by the chaos of the party, of the screaming, of the howling of the girls and the clapping of the guys and Malcolm frantically began clawing at the guy’s arms, his hands. Malcolm’s chest tightened as his breaths clipped and he blinked around the tears stinging his eyes as he felt another hand fiddling with his belt.

“Stop! St-- _ goddamnit _ just stop!” Malcolm’s body reacted like molten lead as his brain kicked off adrenaline. He knew what he wanted to do, what he  _ needed _ to do, but his limbs failed him as he felt his sweater get pulled up over his head and off his arms and a scream silence the room.

Malcolm folded over himself. All eyes stared over at him as he choked on air and spit and shook so hard he could barely stay standing. The guy held his sweater in an outstretched hand, his face wrenched up. “Dude, what the fuck?”

His throat was raw, aching, and it took a minute for it to register that  _ he  _ had just screamed. Screamed like a wounded animal. Like a dying child. Malcolm’s face burned as he quickly snagged his sweater from the guy’s slack grip. If he put it on now, fumbling in his drunken haze, they would all see his scars. But the realization settled deep inside that they  _ already had _ . The even scrapes across the sides of his stomach, the rows on his upper arms. They wouldn’t see the jagged flap stretching from his wrist to his elbow, but they saw everything else.

Malcolm punched his arms through the sleeves and pulled the sweater back on. His belt was undone and it only made him queasy, so he ripped the entire thing off and held it tight as he made his way for the door. Their gazes pricked at the back of his neck, at the center of his spine, as he worked at the door handle and stepped outside into the cool air. His cheeks and ears were still hot with shame despite the breeze.


	13. Unwind

Malcolm's profile had spelled nothing but trouble for him. For weeks, their perpetrator had been slitting the throats of young men, but not after brutally mutilating their faces. They were all between thirty to forty, with sharp suits and dark eyes. The weights and heights had all been relatively consistent as well, fairing on the smaller side. What Malcolm had found odd, though, was that all of the victims' hair was  _ crudely shaved _ off.

"My best bet is scissors," Malcolm had knelt down next to their first victim, gesturing to the patchy bald spots. "See how it's not evenly cut? I'd say scissors, or maybe a knife?" He had pointed across the bloody floor. "And the hair there suggests this wasn't done by choice."

Dani had asked, "So what does this all mean?"

"I think we're looking for someone with body dysmorphia," Malcolm had explained. "Someone who clearly has issues with their own physical appearance, specifically around their face and, by the looks of it, their hair. They're likely male, white, around this build, and may possibly be bald or severely scarred. Possibly burned."

JT had mumbled, "The vic looks kind of like you, Bright." All eyes had snapped up to JT, ones of horror and shock, but also, one of excitement.

Malcolm had begged Gil to let him be the bait. He had pleaded and reasoned for days to no avail. "Kid, just drop it." Gil had said. "There's no way I'm letting you come in contact with a batshit wannabe barber."

And Malcolm had listened. He had backed off and followed through the motions of protocol. He had investigated, and worked on his profile, heading home in a timely manner and listening to Gil's orders…

...for about a day.

Malcolm sat cross-legged in a quaint coffee shop, gingerly sipping at his tea and scrolling through his news feed. Their suspect was predatory, and with clear hunting grounds in Kingsbridge. While Malcolm couldn't narrow down locations, he assumed the man was searching for prey during the busiest hours of the day: lunch breaks. Hundreds of thousands of people peeled off for food with their coworkers between eleven and one, and luckily, so did Malcolm. For three days, Malcolm had bounced to the busiest spots for lunch, spending an hour before heading to the next, tackling three in a day before heading back to the precinct. After a few days, Malcolm knew the team would become suspicious of his sudden desire to go out for lunch.

Malcolm flipped his wrist and glanced down at his clock. Seven minutes until he moved to his last location of the day. He scowled under his breath and sank a bit in his chair. While ensnaring a serial killer wouldn't be easy, Malcolm had  _ hoped _ he would actually get caught by day two. Perhaps he was being too cocky. He had gone alone to look vulnerable, but maybe that wasn't enough? Or perhaps he just wasn't the right appearance. Sure, he was a few inches shorter than the other suspects, but he was the same scrawny build, and the--

"Excuse me, sir," Malcolm glanced up. A busser hovered close, tub tucked under his arm. His eyes dropped down to his nametag - Hugh - and then back up to his face. Underneath the man's hat was nothing but smooth skin, not a single hair poking out from the cap.

Bingo.

"Are you done with this?" He gestured to Malcolm's half-drank cup of tea.

Malcolm smiled smoothly. "Yes. Thank you."

"Of course." Hugh shifted the dish tub and moved to pick up the cup.

Angling away, Malcolm quickly pulled up Gil's contact. He clicked call and glanced out the window nearby.

Cold hit his dress pants, splattering over the material and Malcolm jumped in his seat as the busser shouted out, "Oh God, I'm so sorry!"

"I...It's fine…" Malcolm mumbled.

Hugh shook his head. "No, no, it's not. Here, let me comp this for you. A-And please, I insist, come with me. To talk to my manager."

So that was how he did it.

Briefly, Malcolm contemplated falling for his trap. Gil had picked up, he saw the screen change, but if he was on the phone, Hugh could go into hiding, paranoid. But if he went with the man, anything could happen.

"Ah, okay…" Malcolm rose to his feet. He cringed at the cold tea sticking his pant leg to his thigh. "Thank you."

"Of course, of course. I'm so terribly sorry." Hugh began walking towards the back-of-house door, checking over his shoulder for Malcolm to follow.

Malcolm glanced down at his phone. Gil had hung up, but shot him three texts.

'Kid what's going on?'

'You butt dial me?'

'Please tell me you didn't do something stupid.'

Malcolm quickly typed back, 'Got him. GPS on.' and pocketed his phone before Hugh turned around again. He slipped through the kitchen door after the man. Swallowing shallowly, he kept hot on Hugh's heels, noting the lack of staff in the kitchen. It  _ was _ lunch rush.

"Where is everyone?" Malcolm mumbled. His voice shook slightly despite trying to keep it casual.

Hugh shrugged. "It's shift switch."

Smart. Everyone in the front of the restaurant was too busy eating and talking to notice one man's absence, and the shift change left Hugh with maybe two minutes.

"Ah." Malcolm hummed. He glanced around for an emergency exit, for a weapon. The pans and pots still sat on the stove, coils hot underneath them. He turned back to Hugh. "Well, I--"

His head snapped sideways as Hugh cracked a skillet against his skull.

Malcolm didn't feel the ground.

He didn't feel the hurt.

He didn't feel  _ anything _ .

He didn't feel anything until he felt  _ everything _ . Pain popped behind his eyelids. Malcolm jerked to consciousness. Haze clouded his vision and he blinked hard, shuddering involuntarily. A gasp ripped up his throat as he jarred his head, feeling swollen and heavy. His body seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, aching rhythmically.

He blinked his eyes open to his own lap, his chin heavy to his chest. Shiny duct tape fastened his arms to the back of the chair he was slumped in, his ankles bound similarly to the wooden front legs.

Odd. While investigating the other crime scenes, they hadn't seen signs of a chair nor tape. The bodies had been sprawled on the floor in random positions, with zero significance. Now, Malcolm realized, they must have been pushed out of the chair and onto the ground as yet another sign of debasement to the victims.

"You awake?" A voice behind him called. Malcolm twisted to see. His head protested and he nearly vomited from a wave of rushing, wriggling dizziness that settled in his gut and rose to his throat. He gagged, swallowing excess spit. "Good. Oh, and don't worry. You wouldn't be the first to puke. Concussions do that, right?"

"Right…" Malcolm mumbled. Even that one word sounded slurred. "H-Hugh...you don't have to do this…"

"You remembered my name?" The voice came closer. Footsteps echoed on the concrete. Malcolm glanced up as they approached, only then realizing just where he was. With windows blown out and paint peeling, Malcolm realized he was taped to a chair, caught by a murderer, in the middle of an abandoned building in the Bronx.

He gulped. "O-Of course I do." Hugh reared into his vision. Malcolm worked not to curl his lip at the sight of huge, raised scars lining the man's scalp. "I--My name is...is Malcolm. Bright. Malcolm Bright. I'm...I'm--"

"I don't care." Hugh knelt in front of him. "I don't care about your life story. Or your feelings. I'm here because you have  _ everything _ , and you just don't appreciate it enough, do you? Rich boys with pretty hair have it all."

Malcolm frowned. "W-Wha--?"

"You have  _ everything! _ " Hugh snapped to his feet. He wrestled a pair of scissors from his pocket and jammed the point under Malcolm's chin. "You. Have.  _ Everything. _ Money. Looks. Friends. And I? I have  _ nothing. _ "

Malcolm murmured, "I...I don't have fr--"

"My  _ so-called friends  _ did this to me." High tapped the top of his head, the closed scissors jumping on the raised scars. "I was born with an autoimmune disorder, see, and so I don't have hair. But then taped me to a  _ fucking chair _ and pretended to 'cut my hair'!"

"That's unfortunate." Malcolm said. His stomach twisted again, nearly doubling him over to throw up.

Hugh squealed, "It's  _ more _ than just...just... _ unfortunate! _ "

Malcolm hummed. The fogginess ebbed back into the corners of his mind, swallowing down whatever was keeping him conscious for so long. His eyes fluttered.

Hugh growled, "You inconsiderate  _ prick _ ." He rounded behind Malcolm and, fisting a handful of hair, pulled back, yanking Malcolm's head to the back of the chair.

Malcolm shouted out soundlessly. He wheezed, blinking spots from his vision.

Hugh settled close to him, his breath hot against the shell of Malcolm's ear. He whispered, "I'm going to  _ mutilate _ you. Then, and  _ only then _ , will you finally understand me. Will we understand  _ each other. _ "

"As friends?" Malcolm asked.

Hugh stepped back a bit, and Malcolm caught his wild glare from his peripheral. "What?"

"You want someone to understand you. As...a friend? Or...a lover?"

Hugh slapped the scissors, blade-open, to his throat. "I'm not fucking  _ gay. _ "

"Okay...then, friend...right?" A tremble worked down Malcolm's spine as the scissors dug into his skin, drawing a hot line of blood. "W-Why else would you want me to...to understand you?"

"Shut the  _ fuck up! _ " The grip in his hair tightened and jerked Malcolm's head sideways. The scissors flashed in the light as Hugh slipped them through his hair and cut. Strands fluttered into Malcolm's lap, tickling his exposed neck. Cold scraped along his skull as Hugh cut out another patch, and another. Hugh said, "You'll understand soon. Just you wait. You'll understand me soon."

Malcolm could barely focus. He hardly felt his hair give as Hugh cut it free, hardly felt his own body, instead going numb and warm as he faded in and out of awareness.

The grip on his hair disappeared.

A loud slam reverberated through him, and Malcolm winced.

Shouting, screaming, and a blast of gunfire.

He hovered in Malcolm's darkening view, his face swimming and teetering sideways. Or, no,  _ Malcolm _ was teetering, the tape around his wrists cut and leaving him to list leftwards into JT's open arms. JT pulled Malcolm against his chest. Malcolm felt his legs pull away from the chair, freed as well. They were maneuvered to the ground, JT kneeling in front of Malcolm as Malcolm slumped to his knees.

"Hey, man, you with me?" JT cradled the now-near bald side of his head to look at the sluggishly bleeding wound, his hair and face and neck caked with dried blood. "Bright, you with me?"

"Yeah…" Malcolm closed his eyes.

He heard JT say, "Gil, Dani, I've got him. Fifth floor. Eckhart is down."

"Eckhart?" Malcolm felt JT shift again, dragging his wrists up and over JT's shoulders. "Wh-Who's--?"

"Hugh Eckhart." JT pulled Malcolm flush against his back. "You know, the guy who kidnapped you after you decided to play bait without telling us?"

Malcolm laughed under his breath. "S-Sorry…"

"It's cool. Just glad you left your GPS on. Now, hold on." JT hooked his arms under Malcolm's knees.

Malcolm flailed. "Wait! Wait, I can walk."

"Dude," JT huffed. "You sure you should be walking? EMTs can't get up here. There are holes in the stairs, so--"

"Yeah. I got it, I got it..." Malcolm wriggled free, scrabbling to his hands and knees. The world tilted and so did he, nearly collapsing if not for JT quickly grabbing his wrists again and, making sure Malcolm was once again against his back, lifting him up. Malcolm slumped into JT's piggyback, burying his face between his shoulder blades. "This is humiliating…" he mumbled.

"What's up?" JT had started walking. "You good? You're not going to puke, are you?"

"This is  _ humiliating! _ " Malcolm shouted.

From down the hallway, Malcolm heard Gil's chuckle and Dani say, "I don't know, it's kind of funny to me."


	14. Indicted

**_CHAPTER ONE_ **

Dani had slept in late. It had been an honest mistake, a once-in-a-blue-moon relapse in judgement as she hit ‘snooze’ one too many times on her phone’s alarm clock. Gil’s phone call had startled her awake for the sixth time that morning and, after grumbling something into her phone akin to a greeting, Gil had chirped bitterly, “Morning. Hope you planned to come in today, because we’ve got a scene, and I’m already short-staffed.”

And Dani had shot upright. Had bolted for the closet and stripped herself of any remnants of sleep with a cold shower. Within half-an-hour, she clambered in through the front door of the scene of the crime, hair frizzed, makeup forgotten, clothes a wrinkled mess.

Off to the side of the apartment, Gil was speaking with JT. As he caught her stare, he jutted his chin in her direction as a greeting before making his way towards her. “Dani,” He sighed softly. “Glad you could come. Everything all right?” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he gave her a once-over, seemingly unsatisfied by her disheveled appearance.

Dani nodded. “All good.” She craned her neck to see over his shoulder. The apartment radiated a resistance, a battle, with furniture flipped and valuables shattered on the white hardwood floors. JT hovered near a group of CSI as they photographed a particularly bloodied throw blanket. She glanced back at Gil. “Catch me up to speed?”

He side-stepped, and Dani entered further into the apartment. She made her way around the marble countertops, dazedly staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that flaunted the northern end of Central Park, the sun stretching bright and gold across the treetops as the day inched towards midday.

“Here,” Gil’s voice brought her back. She turned to the sound of his voice and stuttered. The women were not much younger than Dani. The realization hit her as bluntly as the bright tang of blood that suddenly overpowered the small kitchen area, wrestling her into a disgusted submission as she walked closer. Dani swallowed reflexively, her expression tight. She licked the copper taste that coated the inside of her mouth.

Splayed face-down in their own blood, the stark splashes puddled around the girls’ heads, dribbling out in stringy chunks from the hollows of their eye sockets. Dani turned away, breathing sharply, as controlled as she could to avoid taking in the stench of the bodies. Crouched beside the women, Edrisa smiled up at Dani. “Morning.”

“Hi.” Dani greeted tightly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, not much. You know, the usual. Bodies. Evidence. Murder…” Her voice trailed from chipper to awkwardly stiff. “Uh, we’ve got something interesting, though.” She reached down and, with her gloved hands, Edrisa craned the head of one of the girls up. “No eyes!”

“I see that.” Dani shuddered slightly. She rolled her neck. “Know why?”

“Nope.” Gil shoved his hands in his pockets. “Our guesses are as good as yours, and if you haven’t noticed, the life of the party has yet to arrive.”

Dani blinked a few times before glancing around.

Where was Malcolm?

Gil continued, “The call came in an hour ago. A friend, Gabriella Horne, found them like this. She,” He gestured to the woman whose head was resting in Edrisa’s hands. “Is Laura Beck. And her friend is Juliana Estrada. It’s recent. But that’s all we’ve got for now.”

Edrisa chimed in, “Yeah. Like, only an hour-or-so ago, max.”

“We think Horne passed the killer on her way up here.” Gil said. He clapped his hands together. “But we don’t have a, uh... _ profile _ . Clearly.” Ducking his head low to hers, he mumbled, “You haven’t heard from Bright, have you?”

She glanced over at him, eyebrows pinched. “No. Why? What’s up?”

He sighed heavily, as if the words were glued to the inside of his mouth. “He isn’t picking up any of my calls.” Gil shrugged, but the line of his shoulders stiffened, too tight to be comfortable. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Bright doesn’t miss calls like this.”

“Oh.” Dani opened her mouth. No sound came out.

Malcolm avoided people, or he answered people. Missed calls  _ were _ an unusual circumstance. Dani remembered all the times his mother had frantically called him, and he blatantly ended the call before his ringer could properly go off.

Gil said, softly, “Let me know if he says anything to you. I--”

The front door slammed open, vibrating off the wall. Gil jolted. Dani whipped around. JT ripped his gun from its holster. 

From the doorway, Malcolm took in a sharp breath and held it. He swallowed thickly. His fingers whitened to match the ashiness of his cheeks as he gripped the doorframe. The tremors that rippled through his hands had worked itself throughout his entire body, a loose shiver running through his muscles.

Dani couldn’t help but stare. It was as if she were rubbernecking, watching a car crash; a fiery, fucked-up car crash. On a good day, Malcolm  _ was _ a car crash in himself, his normal high-speed, tight-wound energy keeping everyone on edge. But this was uncalled for, a shock of silence, an exhausted air that weighed heavily on her. Malcolm looked  _ sick. _

He dazedly found Dani watching and croaked, “Morning.” He swayed slightly. “Body?”

JT put away his weapon. “Jesus, man. The hell happened?”

“What?” Malcolm swallowed. “There’s a body, right?”

“Bodies.” Gil correct from behind her, over her shoulder. She turned to see Gil’s expression warp from surprise to pinched concern. “Bright...what are you doing here?”

His eyes found Dani’s, hollowed by the purple bruises under his eyes, by the sharp of his cheeks poking out against his pallor. She raised her eyebrow to him. Malcolm swallowed again. He focused back on Gil with his hazy stare and said, lamely, “Profiling.” Pushing off the door frame, Malcolm stumbled past Gil and Dani and dropped heavily next to Edrisa in a half-squat, half-collapsed kneel.

Edrisa started, eyes bugged behind her glasses. “Woah. You look...” She trailed off, grimacing.

“You look like shit.” Dani supplied. Gil turned to face her, scowling. Dani shrugged at him, opening her mouth for a retort, for a sharp-tongued, ‘what, he does’ when Malcolm cleared his throat awkwardly and pulled their attention back.

He threw her a bitter smile, squinting up at her. His voice cracked as he mumbled, “Thanks.”

“Are you sick?” Gil asked. Dani rolled her eyes. As if they didn’t all know the answer. As if he  _ would _ answer. When Malcolm hesitated, Gil said, quickly, “Bright, what time did you go to sleep--?”

“I’m good.” Malcolm swallowed. “Just tired.”

JT, from behind Dani, groaned. “Dude, you look like you’re going to lose your guts all over our crime scene.”

Malcolm hung his head. He swallowed forcibly, as if something were caught in his throat. “I’m all right.” he breathed out. “I just...want to do my job.”

“Bright. Go home.” Gil ordered, but his voice was soft, laced with genuine concern as he stepped closer to Malcolm. He reached out for him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, kid, get out of here.”

Malcolm tensed. “I’m  _ fine. _ ” He wrenched away, nearly fumbling into one of the corpses. He righted himself with his hand up in between himself and Gil. “I’m  _ fine _ , I just…” He swallowed sharply once more. Dani licked her lips anxiously. Malcolm’s eyes lost focus, zoning out on Gil’s feet before slipping shut as he swallowed again, and again. “I just want to start my profile.”

Gil started. “ _ Kid _ \--”

“Doctor Tanaka,” Malcolm spoke over him. “What was the cause of death?”

Edrisa glanced between Gil’s stern gaze and Malcolm’s anticipatory one, gawking. She started, “Well...uh…”

“Kid, I swear to God...” Gil held up a few fingers, effectively silencing Edrisa and Malcolm both before they could speak. “Just go  _ home. _ Start fresh tomorrow. I’ll call if something happens.”

“I’m not leaving.” Malcolm bit. He hauled himself to his feet, winded. He was swallowing more than before as he reached behind him to the counter for support. Dani and Gil both reached out as Malcolm tipped forward. Before Gil could grab hold of him, Malcolm righted himself with a gasp. “And I don’t need your help. I’m  _ fine _ . One-hundred-percent. Or ninety. I don’t care. I’m  _ fine. _ I--!”

“Doctor Tanaka,” One of the CSIs stepped forward, a transparent evidence bag in his hand. Inside, Dani could make out four blood-slicked eyeballs as they wormed at the bottom of the plastic, tumbling over each other, stringy red nerves tangling with one another. “We found the eyeballs, ma’am. They were in the garbage disposal.”

Malcolm lurched forward.

He choked, coughing up the contents of his stomach, yellowbrown spattering the floor next to the bodies. His hands flew out, catching Gil’s outstretched ones as he nearly fell forward. Gil bracketed his arm around Malcolm’s chest, hauling him up when his knees buckled and he vomited more. A whine ripped up Malcolm’s throat.

The room went quiet save for Malcolm’s wet hiccups and Gil’s soft patting of Malcolm’s back.

Dani’s heart had stopped somewhere in between her throat and her stomach, not quite resting where it should have been. She felt her gut twist, throbbing in him with her heartbeat. But her pulse bobbed in her throat no matter how hard she swallowed around it, and she found herself stepping forward, hands out.

Gil turned to her and shook his head. He glanced behind her to a crowd of CSIs. “Can one of you clean this up?” They all nodded blankly.

Malcolm stared down at the puddle of vomit at his shoes, stunned to silence. He writhed a bit in Gil’s hold, face red, lightening his feverishly bright eyes as he ground out between his teeth, “Gil, I… _ Shit. _ ” His throat worked against him, pulling up more puke.

“All right, all right,” Gil quickly maneuvered him around the mess the the evidence. The pair stumbled into the bathroom, door slammed behind them moments before Dani could hear Malcolm spitting up more of his stomach. She winced.

The quiet stretched unbearably long. Dani fumbled with her fingers, picking at a suddenly all-important black dot underneath her pointer finger’s nail. She tuned out Malcolm’s retching, instead listening in to the murmuring of the CSIs, one of them gagging, another one giggling, “You pick up eyeballs but you can’t pick up vomit?”

JT came up next to her, hovering behind Edrisa. Edrisa kept her head low as she worked, examining the same area over and over again. She huffed, then, and turned to face them. “Is...Do you think he’s okay? Do you think it’s like...food poisoning or something?”

“It ain’t food poisoning.” A CSI announced. He tossed soiled paper towel into a fresh trash bag. “There’s nothing but acid. Ruined the crime scene, too.”

“He couldn’t help it.” Dani snapped. JT and Edrisa stared at her in silence. Dani’s skin prickled. She folded her arms tight across her chest. “What? Am I wrong?”

“No…” Edrisa mumbled.

The CSI said, “He could’ve not come. Then our scene wouldn’t be fucked.”

“It’s hardly fucked.” Dani rolled her eyes.

Both Edrisa and the CSI nodded as he said, “No, it’s fucked.”

“A little bit.” Edrisa said. She glanced at the stain on the floor. “We’ll have to sample that, and comb through any data that we may find on the victims, or in this surrounding area.”

The CSI ground out, “Freakshow should have stayed home.”

The bathroom door clicked open. Gil stepped out, exasperatingly raising his eyebrows at his team before steering Malcolm out by his upper arm. Malcolm wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, flimsily following behind Gil. Dani’s heart flopped in her chest as she glanced over his discoordinated composure that frayed at the seams, something so stark in contrast to his expensive suits and sweet-smelling hair gel.

“Dani,” Gil guided Malcolm towards her. “Take him home?”

“What?” Dani’s eyebrows pinched. She raised her chin. “Why me?”

Gil stared down at her with pleading eyes, a glass in his gaze that seemed fragile under her words. “ _ Please _ , Dani. I can’t leave. You know that.” He lowered his voice to a whisper as his hand found the back of Malcolm’s neck, holding him straighter but also pulling him a bit closer. “Just...make sure he gets inside okay. Okay?”

She glanced past Gil to where the CSI worked around the crime scene. Edrisa’s eyes caught with hers, then settled on Malcolm, a sour solemnness in her stare.  _ Take care of him _ , Dani realized numbly.  _ Take care of Malcolm. _

Dani nodded. “All right.” She looked over to Malcolm. “Let’s go.” Wrapping an arm around his shoulder, only then did she feel the pulsating heat burning off of him. It was a wonder he wasn’t floored, in some hospital bed, no doubt with a high enough fever to border on concerning. Carefully, she guided him out the apartment door and towards the staircase.

The crime scene stood on the fifth floor of eight, and with no elevator, Dani found herself wondering how Malcolm inched his way up five flights in his condition. The staircase snaked down with narrow, steep steps and a skinny hallway, leaving room for one person at a time, two if they were chest-to-chest.

“Okay, uh, Malcolm,” She squeezed his shoulder a bit. His head snapped up. “We’ve got to get down the stairs. You got this?”

Dani strained to hear his whispered, “Yeah.” Slowly, Malcolm began to ease himself down the stairs, one obnoxiously slow step at a time. Dani kept one hand on the juncture between his shoulder and neck just in case or, rather, as a warm comfort if nothing else.

At the bottom of the last staircase, Malcolm stumbled and Dani tightened her grip, grabbing his arm with her free hand. His chin fell to his chest and he sighed shakily. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s cool.” Dani licked her lips. “You good?”

Malcolm didn’t speak. He stepped down to the landing and, with one arm braced against the wall, he made his way to the main door. “I...I can get home on my own. Sorry for, uh, for wasting your time…”

“How’re you going to do that?” She cringed.

Malcolm squinted over at her. “What?” he rasped.

Dani repeated, “How are you getting home?”

Malcolm pointed vaguely towards the parking garage across the street. “I drove.”

Dani snorted. At Malcolm’s slight pout, Dani pressed her lips together to hold her amusement, but the action did nothing to push down the smile that broke across her face. “Sorry. Sorry, I just...that’s a funny joke, Bright.”

“I wasn’t joking.” he said dryly.

Dani’s grin slipped. “You’ll crash. Get someone killed. Get  _ yourself _ killed. You know that, right?”

Malcolm opened his mouth. His argument died fast and without a sound, instead leaving Malcolm to gape like a fish over at Dani. Gil was right, Dani  _ would _ have to drive him home. She could pick up his keys, taxi to the crime scene, and drive his car back to his place once he was settled.

Before he could speak again, she said, “I’ll drive you.” She walked past him, to the door. “What’s your address again?”

“Dani….”

“It’s cool, Bright.” She talked fast so Malcolm couldn’t interject. “I’ll just drop you off really quick. It won’t be any problem, so what’s your address?”

“ _ Dani. _ ”

“Come on,” She looked down at her phone, pulling up Google Maps. “And I’ll drive your car back once you’re inside, so don’t worry about--”

Malcolm made a guttural sound. Dani turned in time to watch him throw up once again, the spew hitting his smooth-black dress shoes and dirtying the flat carpet underneath. He startled, slack-jawed as if he were shocked at his body’s betrayal.

Dani closed her eyes. She rolled the knuckle of her thumb over the bridge of her nose. “It’s cool. Don’t worry. I’ll...call the landlord or...something. Get it cleaned up.” Closing the gap between her and Malcolm, Dani gently took his elbow and bought him to the door. “Let’s go. Before you puke again.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “And try to warn me if you feel like you’re going to throw up in the car?”

Malcolm nodded curtly.

Outside, Malcolm was squeezing his eyes so tightly Dani doubted he could see anything at all. She walked them to where her car was parked against the curb and, casting a glance over at him, she popped the passenger side’s door open. “Hop in.” She shifted, scooting him closer to the car by his shoulders, ducking his head as he fumbled to balance himself to sit.

Feet in and hands clear of the zone, Dani closed the door and rushed around, eager to crack the windows and get the air circulating so as to avoid him from puking from the stale taste of their own breaths. Despite the chill of upcoming winter, and the fever shakes that wracked through his slight frame, Malcolm seemed to breathe easier with the breeze of the windows down. They couldn’t gain much speed due to mid-morning traffic, but Dani routed them through the back roads, taking her time, easing her foot between gas and break and keeping a steady steer to her direction.

Glancing over at a red light, Malcolm had dozed off, slumped in the seat, head resting half on the seatbelt strap, half propped against the glass of the window. His hair fluttered with the wind, but it hadn’t deterred him from his sleep. Through the drive, Dani noted the sudden smoothness to his normally wrinkled face. Whether he be on a case or high on crack-cocaine, Malcolm always seemed to look stressed, adding extra years to his eyes and extra strain to his expression. When Gil had informed her he was only a few years her senior, she had been speechless for a moment, because how could a thirty-year-old look so worn down, so utterly exhausted by the throes of life already?

Dani pulled the car up to the curb of Malcolm’s apartment building, pulling into park before glancing over at Malcolm.

He looked  _ exhausted _ . If not for his heavy breathing, Dani would have thought him in need of a blood transfusion from the shakiness and the translucently pale skin.

She almost didn’t want to wake him. Dani’s mind flicked back to her first time in Malcolm’s apartment, to the leather cuffs tied to metal chains that tethered Malcolm to the bed. At first, she thought it was some unabashed BDSM routine of his. But then he had flopped down, had drunkenly dazed up at her as she helped him strap himself down, and she had realized it was the solution to what had happened at the precinct upon first meeting him.

He had almost eaten a dozen bullets that day. If Dani hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t wrestled him into her arms despite his unconscious screaming and flailing, he would have been shot, been  _ killed _ for assaulting a police officer.

Malcolm jerked in the seat. Dani stared over at him. His eyebrows furrowed as he squished his cheek further into the seat, breaths coming quicker, coming heavier and with less ease, more strain. He flipped, yelping as if he were kicked, and Dani popped her seatbelt off. It whistled as it clicked back into place and she rushed out and around the front of the car, stopping only for a moment to catch her breath before yanking his door open.

The seatbelt caught him. Malcolm snapped awake, choking on air, unfocused. He writhed against Dani’s soft touch at first, screaming out as she worked to get his fingers in between hers, but his panic died out as his eyes clicked into her calm gaze.

He was shaking more than before, was more pale than before, somehow looking more tired than before. Dani pressed her palm against the pulse point in his throat, a reassurance, and Malcolm leaned into it, his eyes fluttering closed. She reached over him and pushed in the seatbeat’s button. It released Malcolm and he listed slightly to the side before sluggishly pulling himself from his reverie.

“Dani?” He licked his lips. “Where--?”

“Home.” She glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “Or, your house. Apartment. Come on,” She slowly pulled Malcolm to his feet. He leaned heavily against the car as she closed his door and locked it. “I’ll help you up, then get your car. All right?”

Malcolm didn’t answer.

He led the way upstairs and to his apartment, Dani hovering behind him closely, enough to catch him if he fell backwards. She almost expected him to, her legs aching by the time they reached his landing from straining her muscles to brace a fall. After fumbling with the locks, Malcolm spilled into his apartment. He greeted Sunshine with a grunt, even as she chirped and danced and bounced across her perches for him.

“Could you...Could you feed Sunshine? I...Her food is...in the cabinet above the stove,  _ excuse me. _ ” Malcolm darted away. Dani heard a door slam shut followed by another round of retching, though she suspected it was nothing more than dry heaves judging by the sound and by how much he had already thrown up. For a man that didn’t eat, his stomach had quite a bit to protest about.

Dani toed off her shoes and crossed into the kitchen, hesitantly pulling open the cabinet above the first line of gas burners. Inside, a rolled-up bag of bird feed was propped up against other far smaller bags of quinoa grain and white rice. She dragged the bag down, scooped a handful of seed into Sunshine’s dish, and, by the time she put it away, Malcolm was slipping around the corner.

He had lost his suit jacket somewhere in the mix of running to the bathroom and coming back, and his tie was loosened but still clinging to the last inches of its knot. One shoe was gone, and both hands were trembling hard. He ran his fingers through his hair before dragging them down his face. “All right. Thank you. I...I’m just...You can leave. I’m going to…” He walked past her and grabbed a cup next to the fridge. Filling it halfway, Malcolm took a experimental sip, swishing it in his mouth, and spitting it into the sink. “Okay.” He shuffled past her and back towards his bed.

Hunched over, he looked smaller than even herself. Dani’s heart plopped into her stomach. She winced, watching his pathetic waddle towards a bed that likely offered him no good rest.

“Hey,” Dani reached out.

Malcolm turned his head slightly. He stopped walking.

Dani rubbed her fingers together hesitantly. “You...should get changed. Into pajamas.” She realized, then, that he’d never worn anything but crisp suits. “You do own...pajamas. Right?”

After a beat, Malcolm nodded. “In the dresser…” He made to move over there, but instead, he landed on the edge of his bed, sighing. He tipped backwards and flopped fully onto the mattress.

“Bright?” Dani tried.

Malcolm took a deep breath. He exhaled.

Dani stepped closer. “Bright, you good?” She muttered, quieter, “You conscious?”

“Yeah.”

Malcolm propped himself up on his elbows. Dani nodded slowly. They stared at one another, Malcolm blinking fast, too fast, while Dani averted his shallow gaze. Sunshine skittered in the background. Outside, cars honked, traffic bustling under the expansive window.

Dani folded her hands in front of her. “Want me to get your clothes?”

“...Clothes?” Malcolm’s arms began to shake under his weight.

“Yeah, your--...Nevermind.” Dani crossed the room. She wrenched open Malcolm’s dresser drawers, one at a time, filtering through socks, underwear, until she reached one with tee shirts, and the other with an assortment of gym shorts and sweat pants. She pulled out a long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of cotton-smooth joggers. “Here.” She tossed them on top of the bed. Malcolm blinked down at them.

Dani felt her cheeks get hot as she said, “Want me to change you, too?” Her heart skittered back up into her chest, thrumming against her ribs in time with her pulse. 

Malcolm shook his head. Dani let out a breath. “No, no, I...I got it.” he said. But his fingers kept jittering across the tiny buttons of his dress shirt, and could barely grasp his tie. He cursed under his breath trying to undo his cuffs. Dani watched from next to the dresser, sinking at his pathetic struggle to get changed.

With a sigh, she knelt in front of him. Malcolm protested at first, but after a tug-of-war, she managed to pull his wrist into her domain. She made quick work of his cufflinks, forcing herself to ignore the bracelets of black and brown and blue that laced up to the middle of his forearms. Dani could feel Malcolm’s eyes settle on her, could feel the question hitting the crown of her head where he stared, his wondering of  _ what does she think _ , his curiosity of  _ what will she say _ .

Dani swallowed whatever comments she wanted to make, whatever questions she wanted to ask. Instead, she finished the second hand and reached up, effectively shrugging him out of his shirt.

Malcolm’s skin burned hot to the touch. Void of color and oily with a fever-glazed texture, she found her eyes snagging on the little marks underneath the bruises. A wide, shallow discoloration in one place, or a thin, deeper line, even in pressure and speed in another.

She didn’t ask.

She knew Malcolm wouldn’t want her to ask.

It was already conspicuous that he wore long sleeves at work.

It was only more evident that the marks littered his arms, only his arms, most of them long-since healed but Dani caught herself thinking, what if they weren’t? She wasn’t an expert, and once a wound healed, there was no telling quite how old it was.

What if they were recent?

Dani dragged the shirt over his head, and Malcolm wriggled his arms through the sleeve holes. She held him upright as he fumbled with his belt and pants, averting her eyes up, around, anywhere but down at him. Malcolm struggled with his joggers but eventually he stilled, and Dani helped him down to his mattress once again, lying him flat on his back.

“Are you leaving?” His voice barely reached her ears.

Dani shrugged. “They might need me.”

Malcolm stayed quiet. He nodded once. His eyes slipped closed, long lashes fluttering over the dark purple bags underneath.

Without asking, Dani reached across the bed, over his stomach, and reeled in the rightmost restraint.

The leather was heavy and worn against her fingerpads, softened by years of use, of nonstop abuse, some areas fraying and rolled into beads of material, others barely scuffed but wearing the damage in permanent lines of where the leather folded for hours at a time every night. She balanced it between her fingers, smoothing over the cold buckles, before she pulled back and guided Malcolm’s wrist through it.

It felt wrong to restrain someone who could barely stay conscious. Something in her screamed at her to stop, to ask if it was all right, to make sure, but something even deeper told Dani to go, to keep going, because it  _ was _ all right, and Malcolm would want this.

He trusted her enough to do this.

She pulled the ties through the buckles and threaded the small rod through the proper hole. She didn’t need to test which hole was tight enough; it was battered, torn at the edges, what looked to be an improper amount of resistance dealt to it. Dani settled Malcolm’s wrist to the sheets and moved for the left restraint.

It felt almost methodically soothing to her whirring mind. Perhaps Malcolm was rubbing off on her, or perhaps it was the weeks that bled into months that bled into the countless hours and sleepless nights and stakeouts that they spent together, but Malcolm was getting easier and easier to read. At first, his face had been in a foreign language, his words a pidgeon tongue, hardly translated. But the time worked through them, and slowly she came to understand what he was saying even when he was silent.

It was odd. Dani had always thought that, as adults, they were different from children. They lived in another world, on another plane of existence, understanding and comprehending things in a brighter light.

But Malcolm was still the same scared child. Dani could see it. He was the same child, traumatized by his past, by his present, by a future he couldn’t even see but knew it held unfathomable pain.

He was scared.

She could see right through him.

Malcolm let out a breath, pulling her back. Dani glanced down at his hand cradled in her lap, then up at his face, once again softened by sleep. She rubbed her thumb over Malcolm’s knuckles. His chest rose and fell with a rhythmic ease, a cyclic smoothness that Dani found herself breathing in stride. She slipped off the edge of the mattress, settling on the floor to give Malcolm more room. Dani moved to wriggled her hand out from underneath Malcolm’s when one of his fingers slotted between hers, a whisper of his pulse fluttering against the curve between her pointer and middle.

With her elbow propped up on the edge of the bed, and an arm angled back to accommodate Malcolm’s hot hand cradled in her palm, Dani whispered, “Sleep well, Bright.”

She sat, and waited, quiet, until her phone buzzed. "Powell."

From the other end, Gil sighed, "Dani. Sorry to ask this, but I need you to come in. _Both_ of you."

* * *

**_CHAPTER TWO_ **

“Bright?” Dani raked over Malcolm’s slumped form as he shivered, curled against the passenger door, head resting on the window. The sickness sat heavy over him as he breathed unevenly and hard. Swaddled in a puffy pool of blankets, Malcolm’s body was hidden, obscured save for his slip-on tennis shoes and his fever-flushed face. His cheeks lacked warmth, lacked the healthy rosegold undertone he had always glowed with, his sweat-slick bangs dark against his forehead, curled like the tips of his eyelashes which fluttered in his sleep.

Dani frowned. Malcolm looked unconscious. Not asleep, but  _ unconscious _ , wrapped in an inescapable void. She wondered if her shaking would wake him, if he would react to her words and concerns. She wondered if she  _ should _ wake him. “Hey, Bright?”

Involuntary twitches sparked through Dani’s fingers, hindbrain protesting as she reached across the console. Her fingerpads brushed against his thick hoodie and she gasped soundlessly. He kicked off a bruising heat, tingling through her hand as she gently gripped his upper arm. A thick root burrowed in her stomach. Dani pressed her lips. She jostled him lightly.

Malcolm’s head thumped against the glass. He slid lower in the seat, neck craned tight, cheek smushed against his shoulder. “Shit...Bright?”

She slid her palm to his forehead, underneath the sweaty fringe. Her nerves danced, sensitive skin sparking at the touch of his fever. Malcolm moaned in his fitless sleep. He leaned into Dani’s touch.

Dani had tried to get him to take medication for his high temperature, but Malcolm had mumbled something as she shoved his arms through an oversized sweater, had mentioned something along the lines of, “script meds...can’t…” before his voice became muffled by fabric being pulled over his face.

“So you can’t take  _ anything? _ ” Dani had asked. She had rushed around his apartment for her shoes, her keys, scrabbling to scoot Malcolm to the door.

He had shook his head loosely, hair flopping in his face. “Nope. I could die.”

“Die?” Dani had mirrored.

“Die.” Malcolm had confirmed. “It’ll...react with the...the MAOIs…the antipsychotics...”

A monster inside of Dani had kicked her into overdrive at the thought, heart scurrying in her chest, cold rushing through her veins at the thought of Malcolm on the floor, eyes rolled up and body still all from  _ cold medicine _ . She had jerked her head in agreement and ushered him out the front door, but kept watch over him, hands out of her pockets and at the ready to catch him should he stumble down the stairs, or fumble on the sidewalk.

But rationality had kept her calm as she climbed into the car, Malcolm at her side. She had padded him in his seat with various blankets she had plucked from around the apartment, and after snagging one from her back seat, Malcolm had drifted off. He had tried to keep a conversation, but his thoughts oozed into babbling before he had closed his eyes and passed out, fever sapping his strength, his color.

Dani shook Malcolm once more. She squeezed his arm. “Come on, Bright. Don’t make me call an ambulance.”

Coils of muscle tightened under Dani’s hand. She looked up at him as Malcolm kicked in his sleep, expression bare, lips parted. He whined high in his throat, flinching hard, smacking his temple against the window, swallowing a scream.

His eyes snapped open.

Dani held her hand still, loosening her hold but keeping it firm, acting as a ground should he get lost in the throes of his nightmare. Her mind supplied her of one of his first days in the precinct, of when he had tackled her to the floor as fought for his life, shrieking, struggling, shaking in her arms when she forced his head to her shoulder and hushed his racing heart.

It had raced against her ribs that day. She thought his heart may burst, popping like a balloon with how hard it had been rocking him.

Malcolm’s gaze stalled on the car parked in front of them, somewhere around the license plate area, lost in himself. Dani let her hand drop, sliding beneath the blankets to sit at the center of his chest, in the dip of his sternum. Malcolm’s heart pattered hard, pulse jogging at a steady pace but still running from his demons. He blinked fast, gasping, before turning to Dani, head flopping against the headrest.

“Hey,” Dani tried softly. Her hand retreated back to her lap. “We’re here. At the precinct.”

He deflated. “Oh.” His eyes glittered, though from the fever or from tears, Dani couldn’t tell. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.” She fiddled with the fingers resting on her thighs, picking at the half-crescent nails, dragging dirt from underneath the soft white curves from where it clumped at the corners. At Malcolm’s silence, Dani glanced up. His gaze caught hers, the fever brightening the cool pine-blue color into an almost acidic sea shade, popping against the red veins like wires in the whites of his eyes. Dani asked, “How’re you doing?”

“Tired.” Malcolm breathed out a laugh. “But I’m...I’m good…” He nodded as if to convince himself. “Does--...Did Gil say...uh, what he needed? Did he tell you?” He swallowed, grimacing.

“No.” Dani let her seatbelt crawl back as she opened her door. “One sec, hang tight.”

Malcolm began talking, but Dani slammed the door on him. She rushed around the front, hopping up on the sidewalk and yanking his door open in time for him to fling his upper body outside and vomit. Dani jerked backwards. The belt cut across his chest, holding him as he strained, veins popping in his neck, hands flying out for support. One slapped on the dashboard of the car as the other flew to Dani’s shoulder.

“Shit…” Dani stared down at the yellow-lime sick spattered on the sidewalk. “Bright? What…?”

“Sorry.” Malcolm clenched his jaw. “I’m so sorry, I thought I could hold it until I got to the bathroom, I’m so sorry--”

“Shush.” Dani felt his hand curl into the thick material of her jacket. “Just, deep breaths, all right? Just take deep breaths.”

Malcolm nodded sharply. He opened his mouth to respond when his stomach worked against him, contracting, squeezing a wounded sound from his lungs as he curled over himself and spit up more saliva. His chest spasmed as he squirmed, struggling to get his breathing under control.

As his gasping evened into deep, gulping breaths, Dani relaxed. She felt weak, adrenaline cooling in her blood. “Think you can make it inside?”

Malcolm dragged himself back, slumping in his seat, his chest rising and falling dramatically as a haunted look wrenched his soft expression. “Yeah…” He wrapped his arms around his middle. “I’m so sorry Dani. Did it get on your shoes?”

Dani smiled. “No, Bright. And even if it did, they’re ten dollar used shoes. It’s cool.”

“Ten dollars?” Malcolm’s eyebrow quivered up. “I’ve never even  _ heard  _ of ten dollar shoes, let alone seen them…”

“Yeah, because you’re rich.” Dani grinned. She reached around him to undo his seatbelt. Malcolm watched her hands as her thumb pushed the button in, as she trailed the belt back against the wall of the car so as to not snap Malcolm in the face. He seemed transfixed on her gentle movements, unblinking as she stripped the blankets from him and piled them in the back seat. Holding her hands out, Dani said, “Here, let’s go.”

Malcolm gaped between Dani’s hands and her face for a moment, speechless, before a spark of understanding lit his face and his palms clapped against hers. She grabbed his wrists, mindful of the rings of bruises and inflamed skin, and hauled him out of the car. He was lighter than most men she had dragged around, pliant and possibly underweight, and as she heaved him forward, Malcolm flung out of his seat, nearly colliding into her. Dani straightened him out with counterweight, pushing him upright as he hit her chest, keeping them both standing with her legs locked stiff and muscles tense.

As soon as he could suck in a breath, apologies dribbled out of his mouth, an incessant “sorry, I’m so sorry, so sorry, I’m sorry” that had Dani’s heart tripping over itself. She steadied him, holding for a moment longer to make sure he didn’t pitch sideways, before releasing his arms. “Bright, really, you’ve got to stop apologizing.” she huffed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Okay, okay, sorry, so--I mean, yes. All right. Sorry.” Malcolm trailed off, frame shrinking as he shuddered. He stood just above her height on a good day and with the proper shoes, but without the heel nor the perk, Malcolm shrank, head hung. She stared at the crown of his head, at the ridiculous amount of hair he had for a boy, and smiled to herself. Malcolm blinked down at his shoes. “God, I feel like shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, whimpering a bit as he straightened out and said, “Let’s just...get this over with?”

Dani hummed.

It was surprising he was being so open. Dani had figured Malcolm Bright to be more of a clam than a man, the meat of his personality, of who he really was, was sealed, left to pry open only when he was dead. Whether with snake bites or gunshots, Malcolm kept to himself. His eyes glittered in the light of danger, and his hands betrayed him, showcasing his fragility, his fear, the things that made him vulnerable. But he somehow held himself up, head high, confidence evermore in the face of adversity.

Dani marveled at that. In a kill or be killed world, Dani had learned that mental health was weakness, and weakness was vulnerability, and vulnerability would lead to obliteration if in the wrong hands. One did not so much as breathe the words of ‘mental health’ if they wanted to survive. And yet, as she watched Malcolm struggle both physically and mentally, tugging himself along with his restraints and scars and half-a-dozen prescription pills, she blinked, and blinked again, dumbfounded, at a loss for words because how could someone so weak be so  _ goddamn strong? _

Perhaps it was the constant fight or flight spurred on by post-traumatic stress. Or perhaps it was merely in his blood to persevere. What would he have been like without Martin Whitly?

Would he have soared in the FBI, destroying rank after rank as he climbed, skipping two steps at a time? Would he have been a genius still, a criminal profiler, a man with many talents, unhindered by scars? Perhaps there was a Malcolm Whitly in another world, thriving, destined to become a man that Malcolm Bright could never achieve. Perhaps there was another Malcolm out there, a Malcolm who was breathing fresher air, taking advantage of the better things in life because that Malcolm would never experience Martin Whitly.

Her Malcolm was scarred. He was scarred, chipped in the most important places, fragmented like a weathered ornament on hard tile, shattered into pieces. Her Malcolm wore sleek suits and smooth hair to hide the ruin underneath, floating just below his surface. He would flaunt his wealth and flourish in crowds, wearing a mask as if he were at a masquerade. Her Malcolm was a prisoner in himself, strapped to his bed, trapped in his mind. He had been tipsy but still embarrassed, a flush working over his cheeks, down his neck as Dani had put on his restraints that night, turning his head away as he asked, quietly, “Is this the craziest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Dani?”

Malcolm was looking over her, brow creased with concern. “Are you all right?” He leaned forward, into her downcasted view. “Hello?”

“I’m fine.” Dani said, pinched. “Just...lost in thought.” She looped her arm with Malcolm’s and steered them towards the precinct doors. “Let’s go.”

He followed without complaint. Though slower than his usual scurrying, Malcolm kept in-stride with her as they crossed the sidewalk to the front doors. She slipped away from Malcolm to hold open a door for him, to which he bowed a bit. He smiled, a warmth that smoothed his sickly expression into a middle ground between miserable and amused. “Why thank you.” he cooed.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She patted him on the back. The fever pulsed past his clothes. Dani pulled her hand back, lips tugged down. She had almost forgotten he was  _ seriously ill _ , throwing up multiple times in only a few hours. He walked so calmly. He talked so evenly. Even with his sick-slimed skin and bedhead hair and chattering teeth, Dani had almost forgot.

Malcolm was delicate on a good day. Strong, but delicate.

Now, he was downright frail.

Dani walked behind him into the precinct. Sharp smells of acidic coffee and greasy breakfast sandwiches hit her and her stomach cramped. She could taste the oily eggs and fatty bacons and hams on the roof of her mouth, a thick film on her tongue as she swallowed around it to sooth her aching gut. At her side, Malcolm blanched white. He swallowed. A tremor worked up his arms. He swallowed again. A shiver straightened his spine.

“Come on,” Dani placed her hand in the center of his back. “Bathrooms. Let’s go.”

Malcolm nodded fast. “Yes.”

She dropped her hand and let him lead the way, careful to avoid drawing attention. Not only had she planned on working with the NYPD for years to come, but at the rate they were moving, she figured Malcolm would plan to as well. The last thing they needed was a rumor scrounged up from Dani’s hand on Malcolm’s back. The last thing they needed was a couple dozen officers gossiping like hormone-addled teenagers, giggling about resident-wackjob Malcolm Bright having the hots for battle-hardened Dani Powell.

It was the last thing she needed, but Malcolm stopped suddenly and tipped on his heels and Dani rushed up behind him, holding him upright with her arms hooked under his as he struggled to regain his footing, stumbling hard. His hand hit the wall as he heaved breaths, blinking fast.

Dani asked, “Malcolm, you good?”

“What the hell?”

Dani whipped around. JT, sporting a stern expression and a long stride, closed the distance between the three of them. He towered over Dani and Malcolm, large shoulders blocking the view of the officers floating around them. His eyes glanced over Malcolm, jaw set, as he asked, “What’s he doing here?”

“Gil needs him.” Dani shifted Malcolm’s weight. His body vibrated with strain as he fought to stand alone.

JT sniffled. “Yeah? Gil know that he’s passing out?”

“I’m awake…” Malcolm mumbled. “Just, uh...got dizzy. That’s all.”

“We’re going to the bathrooms.” Dani gestured to the doors mere feet away.

Unfolding his arms, JT shooed Dani. “Let me. Scoot.”

“Really?” Dani hesitated.

Malcolm squinted up at him. “What?”

JT nudged her lightly, moving to hold Malcolm up with one giant hand wrapped around the entirety of his upper arm. “Really.” He looked to the bathrooms. “Or did you want to go into the men’s room?”

Dani opened her mouth.

Malcolm said, monotonously, “I’m going to puke.” His expression became mute as he seemed to work the vomit back down his throat, swallowing and cringing at the same time.

“ _ Well then, _ ” JT gently tugged Malcolm forward. Malcolm stumbled alongside him. Dani trailed after them, hot on their heels. “Don’t throw up on my shit, dude.”

Malcolm ground out, “Trying.”

“JT--!” Malcolm choked on nothing. His hands flew to his mouth.

JT bracketed his arm across Malcolm’s chest and in one fluid movement, swept Malcolm’s feet up off the floor and shouldered them both through the men’s bathroom door. Malcolm’s shoes squeaked on the linoleum as JT set him down. The door hissed shut behind them.

Dani heard a violent retch and winced.

The officer passing by the restrooms glanced between her and the door. She flashed a thin smile and turned away, itching to move, to get in there and do something, even if it was just holding Malcolm’s floppy little bangs as he coughed up into the toilet. She doubted JT was offering such sentiment but, then again, why had she wanted to in the first place?

Dani paced. She hovered for a moment, then paced, then hovered, then paced, switching on an off like a child playing with Christmas lights, her mind scrabbling on what she could do, what she  _ wanted  _ to do,  _ why _ she wanted to do so.

Her pacing turned into racing as she walked fast enough for her breaths to clip and her pulse to bob in her veins, thick and fast. Was she really walking  _ that  _ fast? She heel turned, traced up the same path she just walked, and turned again, going back down, thumb caught between the grooves of her teeth, a victim as she snapped the nail and gnawed on the jagged edge. Her eyes skittered over the door, then back to the floor, then to the door once more as she heard rustling from within. A deep voice carried from inside - JT, she figured - and then a toilet flushed, a sink ran, and Dani stopped.

She turned, spitting her thumb out of her mouth as the restroom door opened wide. JT’s arm held it open and Malcolm teetered out, cheeks hollow, eyes distant.

“Feeling better…?” Dani tried to work some chipper into her tone. It fell flat, soured by the anticipation and anxiety, and her heart punched her stomach when Malcolm grunted in response. He wobbled past her, JT following until he reached Dani’s side.

Malcolm shuffled for the conference room, not quite picking his feet up as he dragged his body towards the door.

“He shouldn’t be here.” JT started. He folded his arms tight across his chest. “Nothing but stomach acid came up. Kid’s not even eating. He shouldn’t be here, Dani…”

Dani scowled, “Tell that to Gil.” 

“'Tell what to Gil?” Dani turned to see Edrisa slip into her periphery. She shrugged her white lab coat tighter across her body as she hugged a clipboard to her chest. “Oh man, he looks... _ awful _ . Poor thing.”

Malcolm yanked the conference door open, one hand flat on the wall in front of him, bracing his wobbling arm as he struggled to pull the door. He swallowed hard, blinking almost fervently as he slipped into the room. As Malcolm fumbled for a swivel chair, Dani relaxed. The knots in her shoulders began to untie as Malcolm sagged in the chair. She took in a deep breath.

Even from a distance, Dani could see Malcolm’s body giving out on him. It unravelled, pooling at his feet, his motor movements sloppy and his hand-eye coordination flimsy as he fought to pull the hood up over his head and dropped his folded arms to the tabletop, forehead plopping down only a second later. 

“He needs to go home, Dani.” JT shook his head. “I swear to God I think he blacked out for a second in the bathroom. He nearly face-planted.”

“What?” Edrisa looked around Dani, up at JT. “What do you mean? Who did?  _ Malcolm  _ did? When? Just now? Why is he even  _ here? _ ”

With anger twitching at her lips, Dani spat, “Ask Gil.”

“Ask Gil what?”

Dani, JT, and Edrisa turned to see Gil hovering behind them, hands on his hips, face unreadable. Dani stabbed her thumb over her shoulder, eyebrow raised as she snapped, “Why’s Bright here?”

Gil glanced past her, eyes narrowing to find Malcolm. She knew when he did, as his face warped, lips parted in silent disbelief, perhaps. He brought a hand to scrub at his goatee, breathing hard through his nose. “Damnit.”

“Really? That’s it?” Dani threw her arms out. “Why’s he here, Gil?”

Gil shook his head. “Just...stay here for a second.” He slipped between JT and Dani, turning sideways to step between other officers and detectives as he made a break for the conference room. Gil whipped the door open and Malcolm bolted upright, startled, fever-flushed face flickering with panic. Dani sighed, watching as Gil knelt before Malcolm, one hand on his knee, another gesturing through the air as he spoke.

It felt too personal to watch. Dani felt as if she were violating them, violating who they were, and she turned away, frowning.

JT cleared his throat. “So...he colorblind or something?”

“What…?” Dani muttered.

He shrugged. “Dude’s wearing a red hoodie and blue joggers. That shit don’t match at all.” He huffed out a laugh. “Think he’s colorblind?”

Edrisa jumped forward, giddy. “Statistically speaking, men are far more likely to inherent colorblindness, with one in twelve men being colorblind, and only one in two hundred women experiencing the same colorblindness. And along with that, Caucasian men are the most likely to experience colorblindness, though I’m not sure if that’s due to the sample sizes being biased based on first-world countries where Caucasians dominate the population pool or perhaps--”

“He’s not colorblind.” Dani said. Edrisa snapped her mouth closed. JT glanced down at her. With her face heating, Dani continued, “Or, at least, I don’t think so. I...I was going for  _ practicality _ , not  _ fashion _ . So…” She shrugged.

Edrisa gawked. “You dressed him? You dressed Bright?”

Dani shrugged again. She felt a shiver at the base of her neck.

JT cracked a smile. “Why’d you do that?”

“He couldn’t even stand.” Dani rolled her eyes hard enough to feel a twinge of pain in the front of her skull. “Besides, it’s not like he’s...like, it wasn’t...I didn’t do anything else. I wasn’t even looking.”

“Did you see him naked? Is that weird to ask?” Edrisa’s mouth hung open. “Like, was he wearing anything underneath? Did you see anything--?”

“He was wearing boxers, Edrisa…” Dani mumbled. She squeezed the lapels of her jacket as she crossed her arms. “And I was looking away.”

“So you saw him half-naked? Like, without pants? Like without anything really? Like, bare legs? God, I’ve never even seen his  _ arms _ let alone his legs! Are they really toned? He seems like he’d be pretty toned--”

“Stop.” JT held up his hand. “You’re getting weird, girl. Cool it.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be weird, it’s just because Bright’s such a secretive person and you know I know this is the workplace and so we shouldn’t be showing much skin anyways but he’s always in those  _ really slim-fit suits _ and that’s nice and all but it wouldn’t hurt to show a little skin sometimes you know?” Edrisa sucked in a breath. “Sorry.”

A hot silence made Dani shift uncomfortably. Her face felt warm, skin hot to the touch, her fingers fidgeting with anything they could find, mindlessly picking. She struggled with whether to take her jacket off or leave it on, desperate for some cool air, for some space away from JT’s sideways glances and Edrisa’s drooling over a man who couldn’t defend himself.

She wasn’t sure why it bothered her in the first place. Malcolm seemed to flirt with Edrisa equally, both of them geeking over strange medical technicalities or bodies or disturbing conditions. Their relationship seemed mutual and consensual, a childlike dynamic that waxed and waned between adorable and odd. But without Malcolm there to hear it for himself, to hear what Edrisa was babbling about, seemed almost invasive.

Gil slowly rose to stand. He pushed open the conference room door and poked his head out, gaze finding the three of them fast. He gestured for them to come forward.

Dani walked fast, reaching Gil first with a sigh. She peeked around him, seeing splotches of color here and there between his arm or over his shoulder where Malcolm teetered in the chair, likely struggling to stay awake. JT hovered behind her, and Edrisa stopped at Dani’s left, clipboard still flush against her chest.

“Edrisa,” Gil started. “Are you positive those vics downstairs are ID’d correctly?”

Edrisa nodded once. “Positive.”

“JT,” Gil glanced up at him. “Get the ransom note. Bright’s agreed to look at it.”

“Ransom note?” Dani glanced between Gil and where JT disappeared into Gil’s office. “What ransom note?”

Gil sighed. He straightened out in the doorway, leaning against the frame, completely hiding Malcolm from Dani’s view. “Just after we came back from the crime scene, we got an anonymous letter addressed to the NYPD. The people want two million if we want to see Beck and Estrada alive, but Beck and Estrada are downstairs in our morgue, right?” He looked over at Edrisa.

“Right.” Edrisa nodded again.

“Right,” Gil scratched his neck absently. “So...Bright’s going to check it out. See what he can tell us.”

Dani paused. “Wait. You said ‘people’, not ‘person’. How do you know there’s two perps?”

JT stopped at Dani’s right, passing a clear evidence bag to Gil. Gil flipped it in his hands until it was rightside-up and flashed it to Dani.

She looked over the note, one that seemed to be from a wide-ruled notebook, with the frayed teeth still clinging to the left edge from where it was ripped from a spiral. Half of the teeth had been pulled, leaving little nubs in their wake, while the other half, from the middle of the page down, had been sloppily left in place. While the top half of the note had a curlycue’d font, complete with looped lowercase L’s and lowercase I’s finished with circles instead of dots, the other bragged a brash, broad-stroked script whose letters were spaced and bold, written as if a child were holding a crayon for the first time.

Dani raised an eyebrow to Gil. “You’ve got no ideas?”

“Nothing.” Gil flipped the note back around. He raised his head slightly as he said, “JT, keep searching for information on Beck and Estrada, as well as the girl who found them, Horne. Edrisa, see if you can find any clues on the bodies. Maybe there’s evidence we’ve overlooked. Signs of two people instead of one. Dani, with me?”

“Sure.” Dani agreed. The others drifted away. Dani made to move around Gil and get inside the conference room when Gil pulled the door closed behind his back. The soft click of the latch spurred Dani to ask, “What are you doing?”

“How is he?” Gil’s eyes fell. “Really. How is he,  _ really? _ ”

Dani clapped her hands together. “Uh. He’s got a fever? But you knew that.” Gil nodded in confirmation. She continued, “He’s...thrown up like five times in the past few hours. Or something like that. Once at the crime scene, and the apartment like...twice...and--”

“Is his mood all right?” Gil interjected.

“Uh, yeah?” Dani shrugged. “As good as someone with the flu is going to get, I guess. Why?”

“He probably puked up his meds.” Gil said softly. Dani’s throat dropped to her stomach. Gil’s eyes lit up with concern. “We’ll keep an eye on him, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s...not hallucinating, right?” He asked.

Dani shook her head. “No. I don’t think so…”

“Good.” Gil patted his own arm, comforting himself as he sighed, “Jackie and I...we sometimes looked after the kids when Jessica was...well, being Jessica. And there were times when the flu would come around and Ainsley, she just...got back up after a day. But Malcolm’s always been this...this  _ scrawny _ and so he’d just...be down for sometimes a week at a time.” He pursed his lips, chewing at the soft skin of his gums as he continued. “Sometimes he’d be in the hospital with a hundred-and-four fever, hallucinating, seeing...things.  _ People. _ ” Gil’s chin dropped to his chest. “His father. The girl in the box. He’d...He’d relive it all and so I don’t want that to happen again, all right?” He had raised his eyes to Dani, eyebrows up.

Dani jerked her head. “Sure, yeah. I get it.”

“Anything weird happens, and you’re calling an ambulance, yes?” He stared at her with desperation swimming in his eyes. “I don’t want him getting hurt.”

“Okay.” She breathed out.

Gil pulled away and moved for the door. “It’s one thing to be in a nightmare, but it’s an entirely different thing to be awake and...seeing it. So just,  _ please _ , keep an eye out.”

“I will.” Dani followed after Gil as he opened the door and stepped inside.

Inside, Malcolm had fallen asleep once again. He didn’t startle, and hardly moved save for the rise and fall of his chest and the fluttering of his lashes against the purple-blue bags under his eyes. His finger twitched in his sleep, an absentminded jerk, his legs stretched out and head back against the headrest of the chair as he murmured something under his breath, though the words didn’t sound hostile nor defensive. Dani hoped he was having a semblance of a normal dream. The prospect of that made something inside her sing.

Gil glided around Dani and rushed to Malcolm’s side once more. He tossed the evidence bag on the table as he gestured for Dani to close the door. She slowly eased it closed, careful not to slam it, as Gil maneuvered himself closer to Malcolm. One of Gil’s hands hovered over Malcolm’s wrist where it sat limp on the armrest, while the other made for his slender shoulder. He straddled Malcolm’s legs, pushing them together and securing them between his calves. With a practiced precision, Gil held Malcolm’s wrist to the armrest as he shook his shoulder gingerly. “Bright?”

Malcolm gasped. He choked on a yelp. His eyes snapped open, wild and aggressive. He flailed in the seat but Gil held him in it, his hand clamped tight over Malcolm’s wrist as Malcolm’s free hand swatted out defensively, clipping Gil on the jaw. Gil bristled, but stood firm. Malcolm’s legs kicked out uselessly, trapped between Gil’s calves. Gil snagged Malcolm’s flinging hand mid-flight and squeezed tight, leaning in close to Malcolm’s panicked face and saying, “Kid, look at me. Look here. Deep breaths.”

Malcolm’s hazy eyes settled on Gil’s warm smile. He blinked, small jerks wracking through his body. “Gil?”

“Hey, kid, welcome back.” Gil dragged his thumb over Malcolm’s wrist, ruffling his hair with his free hand. “You with me?”

“I’m with you.” Malcolm whispered. His gaze found Dani hovering near the closed door to the conference room and he turned away, ears bright red as he stammered, “Uh, sorry, I--I feel asleep. Sorry. I don’t even--”

“It’s cool.” Dani said. “Really. You’re good.”

Gil relaxed. He released Malcolm from his hold, stepping back to give him room to breathe as he deflated in the swivel chair. Taking a deep breath, Gil reached past Malcolm, to the evidence bag on the table, and dragged it closer to Malcolm. “Let’s take a look at this, then, shall we?”

* * *

_**CHAPTER THREE** _

Malcolm bled color. His fever devoured the healthy warms of his skin, resurging sickly shades that washed out his cheeks, muted his electric gaze. The blues and purples of his veins pooled under his eyes like bruises, abusive and dark, adorning his exhaustion. The pinks of his face carried into a bright bloodshot that crawled towards his irises, an explosion of red vessels, a shock against crystalline aquamarine. He sagged into himself, neck craning against a violent tremor that worked through his body.

The evidence bag-sealed note rattled in his grasp, his hands shaking as he blinked fasted and squinted down at the paper. Malcolm’s eyes skittered across the scribble. He swallowed hard, teeth chattering jaw tight, gulping loud enough around the knot in his throat that Dani could hear it.

Dani shifted impatiently. She folded her hands over one another underneath the table, scooting her rolling chair a bit closer to Malcolm’s as she watched him drift between semi-coherency and mere consciousness. Another shiver ripped down his spine and he swallowed, cringing. Dani licked her tips tentatively. She glanced up at the clock thrumming in the static silence.

The red hand scurried past the bold-print numbers, counting all too fast and all too slow simultaneously. Precious time Malcolm could have been resting were swallowed by the seconds, instead forcing agonizing minutes upon his shoulders. Time dragged on and on, never ending, a relentless force. She frowned. Her eyes fell to her lap.

Eleven minutes had passed.

It had been thirteen minutes since Gil had awoken Malcolm from his fever-drugged nightmare, holding him down like one would an insane patient, ushering him to a safer recess of his mind. It had been twelve minutes since Dani had reassured Malcolm that his fear, his anxieties, were safe with her. And it had been eleven torturous minutes since Gil handed the evidence bag to Malcolm. Eleven torturous minutes since Malcolm picked up the note and tried to read, and read again, and again, desperate to come up with an answer that his starved body couldn’t produce. Eleven torturous minutes Dani had to watch him writhe in his pain, struggling to sit upright, to breathe deeply, to swallow without wincing or gagging under a sigh.

Eleven minutes.

Dani itched to hold his hands. She fought to hold the note for him so he could at least rest his arms if not his eyes. Rubbing her thumbs over one another under the table, she stared at the cyclic motion. Her lips pinched together.

Never had Dani wanted to close the distance between her and another person. Never had she wanted to get as close as possible to another with as much care as she could muster. She wanted to ease the work off of Malcolm’s shoulders. She wanted to lift the note from his hands. She wanted to pull one finger away at a time, snaking them between her own as she hauled him to his feet and guided him somewhere safer. Gil’s office, perhaps, or home, but even home offered him no reprive from himself. Did Malcolm ever feel at home with himself?

Closeness was a difficulty for Dani, that much she could admit. Between the childhood bullies and petty prep-queens, she closed herself off, even as a child. Friends were a luxury, and she chose to spend her money elsewhere, while intimacy was a stranger, something she decided to avoid dabbling in at all costs. Her mother would reel her in for hugs and she would comply. Her sisters would coo and careen for attention and she would oblige. But never did she get close.

Never.

Malcolm was different, though. He felt different, he moved different, he  _ was _ different. Perhaps it was his loud voice and bursting confidence, a storm of constantly churning confidence, blowing with enthusiasm, with passion that Dani had never experienced. Or perhaps it was his own vulnerability at display, a weakness that could not be covered nor defeated and so he wore it as proudly as he wore his suits and designer items.

Malcolm was weak, but by  _ God _ was he strong. He was a two-ton wall disguised as a one-hundred-forty-pound man. He was a firing squad behind a sharp tongue. He was a battalion of bombs blasting cannonade upon those he didn’t trust, surviving the most painful blows to his psyche, the most aggressive hits to his heart, the most hurt one could experience - one that buckled the knees, that made the tears come and the breaths stop, Dani knew - and he would stand taller than her.

Dani felt a craving in her heart. Her chest felt concave, flimsy at the ribs, her heart beating heavy, blood thicker than her veins could handle because she was  _ desperate _ for that.

For strength. Strength in weakness.

“All right, kid,” Gil snapped Dani back. She glanced up as Malcolm’s chin fell to his chest, shaking with frustration as his brows pulled tight. “Come on,” He reached out for Malcolm. “Just...take a moment.”

Malcolm wrenched away. “I’m... _ fine _ . I’m  _ fine. _ I...I just need...a-a lead.”

Gil’s eyes flicked up to Dani’s, his expression crumbling as he whispered out, “Bright. You…” His attention turned back to Malcolm. “Take half an hour. In my office? Please?”

“No.” Malcolm ground his jaw. “No, I can do this...I can do it…” He squeezed his eyes closed against a harsh shudder that rocked him forward against the table. “ _ Shit. _ I’m...I’m fine…I just...There’s...” His voice trailed off as he peeled his eyes open, lashes glued with involuntary tears. “I’m okay…”

Gil blew out a breath. He reeled back in his seat, rubbing his face raw as Malcolm sagged against the table, head hanging , hair dangling in his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Malcolm, just…” Gil grabbed Malcolm’s upper arm. “Come on. I’ll send you home.”

Malcolm snarled at Gil, shouting out, “I’m  _ fine! _ ” He wrenched back as if Gil were cauterizing his sanity. “Let me  _ go! _ ”

It wasn’t long ago Dani had been the same. Screaming, kicking, snapping at people to listen, to leave her be. With her addiction and overdose, with her own traumas…

Dani leaned in. “Gil, wait.”

Gil pulled back as Malcolm jumped out of his chair, note in hand. His grip was tight enough to leave dents in the paper, arms shaking, shoulders stiff. He glared over at Gil, a wild in his eyes. He mumbled something unintelligible, then, “I can  _ do this! _ ” Malcolm slammed his free palm over his chest. “You called  _ me _ . I can  _ do this _ .”

Dani blanched. Gil’s face drained as he stared at Malcolm slack-jawed.

“Bright...What are you…?” Gil gawked. “Are you with me?” His voice was soft as he squirmed in his seat.

Malcolm scoffed. “Am  _ I _ \--...Where  _ else _ would I be? Home? No, you...you  _ called me _ . I can do this just let me  _ do this. _ ”

“Kid, I…” Gil sighed. “All right. Just...do what you can.”

Malcolm seethed, “ _ Thank you. _ ” He glared back down at the note, nearly toppling over, shoulder bumping into the whiteboard. Dani and Gil made to stand, both with hands perched on the arm rests, feet planted to propel themselves forward. Malcolm didn’t seem to notice, his focus fixated on the ransom letter, his fingers fidgeting across the note and through the air.

“Gil,” Dani tapped the table lightly to grab his attention. Gil looked over at her. She mouthed, ‘Is. He. Hallucinating.’

Huffing out, Gil shrugged. “I don’t know…”

“‘Don’t know’ what?” Malcolm glanced between them.

Dani shook her head. “Nothing, Bright.” She gestured to the letter. “How’s it coming?”

He looked almost defensive as he grumbled, “I can figure it out.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Dani reassured. Gil’s tight expression screamed at her to do something, do  _ something _ and Dani wasn’t sure what. Across the room, Malcolm swayed on his feet, breathing hard, blinking harder. He had lost another shade of health, skin greying in his cheeks, eyes losing their light, and as his lips moved, no sound came out. But he was backed into the corner of the conference room, animalistic in his stance, shoulders puffed and feet turned to run for the door, the letter cradled to his chest.

She watched as Gil shuffled a bit closer. He stood up and reached out, “Bright. What’s a break going to hurt?”

“I don’t  _ need _ a break. I don’t  _ need _ sleep. I need... _ to solve this _ .” Malcolm finished with a whimper dying in his throat. “I can do this.”

“You can.” Dani remained seated. She worked her face into a soft peace, and smiled warmly. “But it’s okay to take a break.”

“I don’t need it.” Malcolm said. He looked defeated, staring at her through his fringe.

Dani nodded. “But you  _ can _ . If you wanted to.”

“I...know.” Malcolm’s shoulders dropped. “I know that…”

She struggled not to leap out of the chair. “And so…?” At Malcolm’s silence, she capped it off with his own free will. “You’re no good to us when you can’t think. But it’s your choice, Bright.”

Distantly, Dani expected Malcolm to snap at them again. She waited for his walls, his firing squad’s bullets, his cannons’ heat.

But Malcolm went boneless, head lolling as he nodded. He stumbled on his feet. “O’ay....” Clearing his raw throat, Malcolm said, “ _ Okay _ . I--...I’ll take a break.”

“Good.” Gil stood. “Okay, come on. How’s my room sound? Half an hour?” He rose to his feet to join Malcolm on the other side of the room, one hand hooked under Malcolm’s elbow as the other plucked the evidence from his hand. Dani took it and tossed the note onto the conference room table. She held his other forearm.

Malcolm’s head bobbed, a nonconforming gesture that Dani took as a nod. Gil blinked over at her. At his guide, they ushered Malcolm towards the door one shuffle at a time. His malleable weight went jelly in her hold, and she found herself holding Malcolm upright and dragging him forward more than him freely walking on his own. As they entered the main precinct area, Malcolm’s chin fell to his chest, face scrunched. Gil’s free hand kneaded the tense muscles of Malcolm’s neck, a heavy pressure that seemed to make Malcolm gasp with relief.

Eyes followed them to Gil’s office. From the corner of Dani’s periphery, JT floated against a wall, a coffee in one hand and concern wrinkling his features. She looked over at him as Malcolm slumped more against her, his head dropping to her shoulder, their even height a blessing in that moment if it offered him even a moment of reprieve.

Malcolm slurred out, “Sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Dani was quick to follow.

Gil kicked open his office door. Dani gently closed it behind the three of them. As Gil gently handed Malcolm off for her to lead to the sofa, he crossed the room, yanking his jacket off the back of his office chair.

Dani eased Malcolm down onto the sofa. He teetered onto his side rather gracelessly, flopping down, his hair fanning across the cushion, limbs tangled around one another as he curled his legs up and his arms across his chest. His pale face and white hands burned bright against the black cushions, his eyes cracked open and staring into nothing.

Gil stopped before them, reaching around Dani to drape his thick leather coat over Malcolm. The jacket covered him from where it tucked under his neck, down to the backs of his thighs. Satisfied, Gil hummed. He dropped his hands to his hips. “Okay…” He patted Malcolm on the arm. “Get some sleep, kid.” He bowed his chin to Dani. “I’ll get JT to bring him something for his legs. Wait here?”

Dani nodded and turned back to Malcolm. She raked her eyes down his shivering form, only realizing the deafening silence of the room when the office door clicked closed once more and she was left alone. The quiet made her shiver.

Malcolm was already asleep. The bone-deep exhaustion took him, weighing on his chest as he wheezed, working through his muscles as he twitched. His leg jerked. Dani shot straight. He mumbled something in his sleep, nuzzling into the couch cushion, and Dani exhaled slowly. Her heart scampered in her throat. A simple nap-jerk was nothing for her to concern herself with.

But Malcolm Bright had always been her concern.

The moment she met a scrawny thirty-something who buzzed like a child high on a sugar-rush at the crime scene, Dani was concerned. While it had originally stemmed for concern over the scene and the evidence and the professionalism of the newcomer, Dani found it quickly warping. The sharp and cold pinpricks working through her veins had filed down to warm orbs that flushed through her, kicking her pulse into overdrive whenever Malcolm showed pain, showed fear, whenever Malcolm smiled, or let loose, opening his gates even for a moment.

She had, originally, wanted to hate him like a rival, like an obstacle to overcome. He brought light into her brooding dark and she had, originally, hated it. She had, originally, thought many things of Malcolm. But he grew on her, and his light dimmed, or perhaps her darkness brightened.

It maddened her beyond belief.

Life was easier when Dani could be bitter and hateful and use brunt-force to barrel through her struggles. Life was easier when she could smack her attackers and swat away her nightmares, her insecurities, her  _ weaknesses _ . Life was easier when she could fight and flee at her own choice.

Life was easier without Malcolm Bright.

Nothing was easy when he brought a refreshing excitement to her world. Nothing was easy when he challenged her to open up, to breathe with him, to give him a moment and her a minute to test their waters and trust one another.

Trust was never easy, but it became easier with Malcolm.

Dani’s hand moved on its own. She smoothed a thick strand of hair behind the shell of his ear and hummed absently, if not to Malcolm then to herself. Lost in the melody, in the stray movements of her fingertips through his hair, nails light over his scalp, she hardly noticed Malcolm twitch, and swallow, and twitch again, eyes cracking open and brows pinching instantly.

At his gasp, Dani tried, “Bright? You good?”

Malcolm made a sound, lightweight and soft, almost a whimper. He swallowed again. His breath fluttered as he blinked. “D’ni?”

She leaned in, folding her legs underneath her as she scooted closer. “Yeah?”

Malcolm swallowed. “G’ng t’puke…”

Dani tossed Gil’s jacket. She threw Malcolm upright, one arm under his shoulders. A small stream of vomit dribbled past his lips as he gagged weakly, spitting down his hoodie. His fight drained as he let his stomach work against him without fanfare. Malcolm lacked the conviction to pull a dissatisfied expression, let alone one of disgust or mortification. Instead, he stared at the spittle rolling down his front with loose lips and glassy eyes.

The door swung open. Dani’s head snapped up.

JT hovered in the doorway, nose curling as he glared over at Malcolm. He had a giant, black sports sweatshirt in one hand, the doorknob in the other. “Dude...did you just--?”

“Help me?” Dani shifted, getting behind Malcolm to prop him up. Only when his back dropped limp against her chest did she feel the uncomfortable heat he kicked. It felt too hot, too sick, an unnatural combination of oven-temperature warmth radiating from a very human Malcolm Bright sending alarms screaming through her nerves. “JT, I think he needs a hospital.”

“You think?” JT settled at Malcolm’s legs, scowling. He glanced up at Dani. “Like, ambulance-kind of hospital? Or, we get him changed and someone carpools-kind of hospital.” Reaching across, JT began wrestling Malcolm’s arms from his snug hoodie’s sleeves.

Dani shook her head. “I’ll get Gil back in here. I...He knows Bright’s medical history better than us.” She wrangled her phone from her pocket and dialed Gil’s number. Texting was too tedious with one arm wrapped around Malcolm’s middle, holding his undershirt down while JT wrestled Malcolm out of his hoodie. As JT pulled him free, Malcolm’s head flopped back against her shoulder. He babbled something into the crook of her neck, his feverish breaths hot against her throat. Tapping Gil’s number, Dani brought the phone to her ear. From the corner of her eye, she saw Malcolm’s eyes open and blink ahead at JT.

Gil picked up on the first ring. “Dani?”

“Hey,” She sighed. Her heart leapt into her throat. “He’s...getting really bad. I think it’s bad. Should we call an ambulance?”

Malcolm murmured something. JT began to slip Malcolm into the oversized hoodie, moving smoother with the extra room. His head popped through the top and JT leaned back, crossing his arms with nervous contentment. He glanced up at Dani.

Gil said, “Hold on. I’ll be right there.” He paused. “EMTs give him sedatives. I don’t want to risk a nightmare.”

Dani nodded. “All right, just--”

Malcolm’s shriek cut her off. He threw himself back against her, gasping, arms outstretched, hands splayed wide in the air. His body broke into shakes, uncontrollable and violent and just as ragged as his hyperventilation. “S-Stay back!  _ Stay away! _ ”

The room wasn’t soundproof, and the window blinds were open. Heads turned to peek into Gil’s office, nosy officers snickering or staring at Malcolm as he trembled in Dani’s hold. 

“Stay away! Stay back!” He screamed, breathless, voice snapping as he cried out an octave higher at JT’s move forward. “ _ Please stay back! _ ”

“Dani?  _ Dani? _ ” Gil, on the other line, sounded winded. “Talk to me!”

“I--...Don’t--!” Malcolm kicked at JT. He clawed at her arm around his stomach. His dull fingernails bit into her skin and she gasped, pulling away as Malcolm flung himself forward and off the couch. She dropped the phone. Malcolm jerked back, throwing himself into a corner next to a bookshelf, sandwiched in the joint of two walls. His knees buckled and he dropped hard.

“Please, _please no please!_ ” He covered his ears. Dani’s body locked up. Her tongue swelled in her mouth. “Please. Please. Don’t hurt me. Don’t _touch me._ ”

Gil burst through the door. He closed it as Malcolm sprang back upright, tottering on his jelly legs. “Gil.  _ Gil. _ ” Malcolm hissed through his clenched teeth. “Get  _ away from him _ .”

“Who?” Gil’s voice wobbled.

“ _ Him. _ ” Malcolm’s manic eyes jumped to JT. “ _ Dad. _ ”

“Hold up.” JT’s lips turned down. “You think  _ I’m  _ your serial killer dad?”

Malcolm slid back to the floor. “He’s tricking you. He’s  _ lying! _ ” Dani cursed under her breath. She tongued her teeth as she watched him work himself into a panic, unable to move, unsure of how Malcolm would react.

“Malcolm.” Gil took a step forward. He turned his palms out as he approached slowly. “Kid, it’s me. Right?”

A beat later, and Malcolm mumbled, “Yes…”

“And who is that?” He pointed vaguely behind him, to Dani. She tensed. 

Malcolm’s eyes found her. “...Dani. It’s Dani.” They lingered, his electrifying stare burrowing a hole through her. She took in a breath and nodded to him, slowly, but sturdily.

“And that?” Gil’s finger hovered to JT.

Malcolm’s face twisted, confused. “J--JT…” He sounded disbelieved. “That’s JT?”

“Yeah man. It’s me.” JT patted his own chest, as if he were unsure himself. “It’s me, man. Not your pops.”

Gil cupped Malcolm’s head in his hands, crouching low as Malcolm shrank into himself. He stared up at Gil like a child, tears swimming in his eyes. “Gil?”

“It’s me.” Gil nodded. “He’s not here, Malcolm. It’s us. We are here.”

Malcolm grabbed Gil’s shirt sleeves, moving sluggishly. “There...are three…”

Dani’s stomach wrenched. Winded, she gasped. “Three?” She carefully padded across the room, kneeling next to Gil and Malcolm. “Three of what?”

“Of them.” Malcolm sucked in a breath. “Of  _ her _ . Dissociative identity...they have three…”

“What’s he talking about?” JT chimed in.

Gil held up a hand. “Hush.” He settled his palm back against Malcolm’s cheek. “Three of who, Malcolm?”

“The perp…” Malcolm leaned forward. “Three…” He groaned, head bobbing. Gil’s hands slid around to Malcolm’s back, rubbing circles into the muscles as Malcolm prattled on, delirious. “Three of them...there’s three...they--...There are three…” His voice died in his throat as he slumped forward, limp. Gil fell back as he dragged Malcolm forward against his chest.

“Christ.” Distraught tears worked to Gil’s eyes as he cradled Malcolm close, wrapping his arms around him. “He’s...Call that ambulance. Now.” He looked over to Dani. “He’s burning up. Dani.  _ Call. _ ”

Dani nodded. She crawled across the room to her phone and punched the numbers.

“Nine-One-One, what is your emergency?” The operator’s light tone made Dani’s guts twist.

She said, “We need an ambulance. One-five-three east sixty-seventh street.” Her eyes fell to JT and Gil, who worked to maneuver Malcolm into JT’s arms. He hauled Malcolm up out of Gil’s lap, frail, head lolling, tiny his oversized sweater swallowing him. The sleeves covered his hands, the head hole slouching down his shoulder. Malcolm wasn’t supposed to look so weak.

Dani blinked away tears. “Please. Please, hurry.”


End file.
